


Release

by Tangerine



Series: Release/Pulse [1]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-10-18
Updated: 1997-10-18
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 53,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13668339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine
Summary: The song Warren sings is "Babooshka", and it can be found on Kate Bush's CD "Never For Ever."





	1. Chapter 1

Warren Worthington looked deep into his lover's eyes. He loved them, the warmth they emitted, the love he knew was also reflected in his own. He tenderly brushed a strand of her purple hair away from her beautiful face and smiled gently. He often wondered what he had done to have been blessed with someone like her. 

Elisabeth Braddock, and she alone, had saved him from the misery and despair he had been living in. He thought he'd never be able to open his soul to anyone without them turning away in disgust, but she hadn't. Instead it had made their love stronger. He had never known love like this. 

She intertwined her slender fingers with his and leaned against his strong chest, listening to the calming sound of his heart beating. They move slowly, sensually, across the floor, drawing the stares and gawks of all in the uptown restaurant. They were used to the looks they got; they expected them. 

The music was slow and soothing, stealing them away from their everyday worries and fears. The vocalist was soft-spoken but with the voice of an angel. The chime and cries of the strings accompanying her only made the tone more beautiful and fantastical. 

But soon the music ended and the couple returned back to their seats. Warren picked up the glass of champagne and raised it slightly in toast. "To you, my love, to us." She smiled and gently clinked his glass, before bringing it slowly to her red lips. 

"Should we call it a night?" He asked, sipping the final drops of the refreshing drink. "Perhaps, wander home to a more private party." He raised his blond eyebrows in suggestion, his ice blue eyes twinkling playfully. 

"A private party, eh? Consider this my RSVP," Betsy whispered, pulling his across the table and kissing him gently on the lips. She pulled away with a smile and stood, her satin dress cloaking her tall, lean body like liquid. Warren offered her his arm, muttering to the waiter to put the night on his tab as they left. 

They entered the dark street, arms entangled, walking slowly. Though the hour late, they didn't worry about being mugged in Manhattan. They had both been trained to fight super human villains. A few muggers would not likely be a problem. 

They reached the area of Soho where they lived, and Warren quickly fished out his keys, letting them into the building. Betsy quickly pulled him into the elevator, and he entered the security codes to the penthouse as the elevator began to move upwards. The doors hissed open, and Warren unlocked the apartment. Betsy stole a pinch on the way in, and he turned to join in the playfulness before tripping over backwards. 

"Ah," he swore before a stream of curses flew from his mouth. He hit the ground heavily, knocking something breakable to the floor. It shattered loudly, and he felt immediate pain course through his arm. "Ouch," he declared through the darkness, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. 

Betsy flipped on the lights, and he could tell from her expression, she way trying desperately hard not to laugh at him. He lay sprawled on his back, left leg tangled in a box, the other lying limply beside the culprit. 

"You really know how to set that romantic atmosphere, luv," Betsy chuckled lightly. "I don't think anybody has ever tried to woo me in such an unique, and obviously painful, fashion. Personally, I'm flattered." 

"You laugh now, but I may be too sore to be of service to you later on," he joked dryly, stumbling to his feet. His eyes went wide as he saw the full extent of the damage. "My vase! That thing cost me a fortune. Sure, I bought it out of pity for the artist, but come on, I paid good money for that monstrosity!" He reached down to pick the shattered pieces up, and noticed his hand. "Where's all this blood coming from?" He asked stupidly, suddenly aware of the warm fluid rushing from a cut on his hand. 

"Warren!" Betsy exclaimed, grabbing a towel from the kitchen. She rushed over to him and wrapped his hand tightly, trying to stop the flow of crimson. He looked a bit pale, so she lead him to the couch. "Bloody hell, do you always bleed this much?" She asked, racing to get another piece of cloth. She returned seconds later with a much larger towel. She held his hand in hers, gaping at the severity of the wound. 

"I'll be okay," Warren assured her, petting her arm weakly. "It's just a cut. I've been cut before. I'll be fine." 

"You don't sound fine. Should I take you to the hospital? You might need stitches," Betsy suggested calmly. 

"No!" Warren declared in sudden horror, "no hospitals, please, no hospitals." 

"Warren, you're being irrational. There's too much blood here. You shouldn't be bleeding this much from a wound in the hand. Do you have some blood condition I don't know about? Are you a hemophiliac?" 

"I'm fine," he insisted, "I just bleed a lot more than other people. I'm okay, now. See, the bleeding's stopped, I'm okay." He pulled off the towel and pointed to the wound, which barely seemed much of a wound at all anymore. Betsy gaped at it and tried to spit out words, but it all came out in one gargled sound. 

"How the hell did you do that?" Betsy demanded, pointing at his hand. She tried hard to sound calm, but Warren could hear the real tone she used, the ‘liar' tone. She used it on him whenever he, however unintentionally, withheld information from her. 

"You ever wonder why I always seem to come out of things untouched? I'm usually the first one down in battle, being burnt, shot, ripped apart, punched, thrown into whatever's around, but I rarely even see the infirmary. I heal, pretty quickly if the wound isn't very large. When Sabretooth ripped my metal wings, they couldn't heal themselves, so I started getting sick. Now, I'm not exactly sure about anything that follows that, but that's besides the point. I never meant to keep this from you. I guess, it just never came up." 

"It never came up?" Warren winced at the screech, knowing immediately how mad she must be. "You scared the bloody daylights out of me. I thought you were going to bleed to death, and it never came up?! _I've never seen so much blood come from one person's hand in my life, and it never bloody well came up?!_ " 

"Come on, Betsy, you can't get angry about this. What was I supposed to say, ‘Oh, hey, don't mind me the next time I bleed. I'm a quick healer?' That's not the type of thing you talk about. It's like me telling you I have three lungs over brunch." 

"You have three lungs?" She repeated, in bewilderment. 

"Well, sort of, the third one's there for flying only, and it's not as big as the other two, but that isn't the point!" He declared, throwing his hands in the air. He breathed in deeply, and walked over to her. He hugged her tightly, kissing the top of her purple head in an attempt to accost the possible fight that was brewing. "I'm sorry I scared you." 

"It's okay, Warren. I suppose it makes up for the time I hopped out of the shadows to surprise you," she confessed, smiling into his chest. He chuckled lightly, remembering that particular day. 

"Well, it was nice gesture, though I wish you would have waited until I had come out of the shower to do it. Trying to explain to Bobby why I screamed like a frightened school girl for no apparent reason was an unfortunate situation I would have rather avoided." 

"Speaking of showers, I suddenly feel like having one myself," she said coyly, unbuttoning shirt with delicate fingers. She pushed the silk cloth off his skin, undoing to the harness she was beginning truly to hate to free his white, feathered wings. 

"Would you mind some company?" He asked, swooping her up into his arms. She squealed and wrapped her toned arms around his neck. She smiled and kissed his shoulder with warm lips, a sign of things to come. 

"Not at all, Mr. Worthington, not at all." 

* * * 

The phone rang too loudly for such an early hour. The shrill squeal was far too severe for Warren's sensitive ears, and he sleepily looked around the room, wondering if a pig was being slaughtered nearby. 

"The baby's crying, dear. It's your turn," Betsy muttered, shoving him out of the bed. He gawked at her, realising she was still asleep, and he couldn't help but wonder what exactly she was dreaming about. 

He slipped out of bed, and got down on his hands and knees, knowing the phone was around there somewhere. The ringing persisted in an annoying shrill, and he tried to follow the sounds to wherever the receiver lay hidden. By the third ring, he knew he was getting closer. He reached into a box labelled kitchen, wondering why it was in the bedroom, and pulled out the cordless. 

"‘Ello?" He mumbled, leaning back against the wall as he pulled his wings tightly to his body. They shielded him from the cold of the wall and provided ample support all at once. 

"I'm gonna kill ya mutie!" 

"Excuse me? I don't think I heard that last comment. Are you from Avon? If you are, I had a horrible reaction to the hypo-allergenic cream you were selling. It seems my skin turned an odd shade of blue." 

"I'm gonna kill you and that pretty girlfriend of yours, too. When ya least expect it, I'm gonna shot ya both down with my rifle, then string ya up like raw chicken for all to see and laugh." 

"Indeed. Mind if I ask you one thing?" 

"Didn't ya hear ya stupid mutie? I said I'm gonna kill ya!" 

"Yes, yes, I heard. What I'd like to know is how you got this phone number. Can you ask somebody that?" Warren knew this was probably a bad approach, but it was too early, and this bigot had just about ruined his morning. 

"I'm gonna kill ya!" 

"That wasn't my question. Last I checked, I was unlisted, and I'm an avid supporter of free speech, as you obviously are, but it's far too early for a battle such as this over the phone. You're abusing your rights as an American citizen." 

"I'm gonna kill ya, mutie!" 

"Well, I'll see you then. Goodbye." Warren hung up and smiled. That had been surprisingly fun, and yes, his mood had been slightly dampened, but he felt astoundingly refreshed. He climbed back into bed and nuzzled Betsy's neck. 

"Who was that charming caller?" She murmured, smiling. 

"Beats the hell out of me, some idiot member of the FOH probably, spewing death threats. Remind me to get that number changed," he retorted, kissing along her shoulders. She shivered, goose bumps tickling their way across her skin. 

"Glad to see whoever it was didn't put you in a bad mood." Betsy laughed and flipped him over, so she was leaning over him, which was no mean feat with a man possessing a sixteen- foot wingspan. They looked deep into each others eyes, the passion silently mounting. Had there ever been two people more in love?


	2. Chapter 2

"You know, I wouldn't do this for anybody but you," Warren said, frying pan in one hand, spatula in the other. 

"I should hope not," Betsy replied, still grinning from the view. "If I caught Ororo or Jean with you, like this, I may jump to the wrong conclusions." She sipped her tea and leaned back to read the front page of the New York Times. "Nice apron, by the way." 

"Ha, ha, it was the only one I could find, and the last thing I needed was to spill something hot all over me. The results would have been disastrous." Warren was surprised he managed to say that with a straight face. 

"I think you naturally attract the colour pink, as horrid as it may be." 

Warren raised an eyebrow. That was new. "How so?" 

"I'm sorry I'm the one who has to tell you this, but that other costume you had? The blue and pink one?" Warren nodded. "Apocalypse wanted you to be his Angel of Death, yet he put you in pink and blue. That alone raises some questions about dear old Apocalypse." 

Warren paused and thought about that a moment before smiling at the idea. "You may have a point. I never thought about that, but it was pretty ugly costume. I'm ashamed I stayed with for so long." 

"Not as much as I'm ashamed I'm still wearing that blue monstrosity. I really should get a new one, but I like the reaction I get with the thong." Betsy sighed deeply. "I suppose I just can't win." 

"Betts?" Warren's voice seemed a bit strange at that. "How do you like your eggs?" 

"Cooked, I suppose. I ate a raw one back in finishing school, threw up over everything, quite embarrassing that was. Why?" 

"How about en flambe?!" Warren frantically looked for a lid or water or something. The frying pan was flaming, singing the ceiling, and the eggs were mere cinders now. Betsy jumped up quickly and threw her tea on the fire. It hissed out, and an incredible look of relief spread over Warren's face. "I don't think we'll be having eggs today." He sighed and pushed the remains of the charred eggs into the garbage. 

"That was exciting," Betsy mumbled, sitting back down. She poured herself another cup of tea and continued to scope the newspaper, stealing glances at Warren every now and then. He bent down, routing through the cupboards in search of cereal, and Betsy grinned. "Keep up the good work, blue buns." 

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Warren called from within the dark confines of the cupboard. 

"Fine." She looked up just in time to see Jean, Ororo and Rogue land on the balcony. "Did I happen to mention I was going shopping today?" 

"No. Why?" Warren feared the answer and slowly pulled his head out of the wood kitchen ensemble. Quicker than Betsy had ever seen him move before, he was out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the bedroom without even using his wings. 

"Hello," Betsy greeted the fellow X-Woman as she opened the balcony door for them. 

"Was that Warren?" Jean asked, looking in the direction he fled. 

"Perhaps the more important question, sugah, is where did ya get that absolutely adorable apron. If Ah could just get Remy inta one of those, the world would be a better place for it." Rogue looked off into space dreamily. 

"Perhaps Warren will be mad we came early. He did not appear to be dressed for company." Ororo smiled then sniffed slightly. "What is that interesting smell?" 

"Burnt eggs. Tea?" They graciously accepted and sat down, chatting about recent events at the mansion when Warren re-emerged into the kitchen, strutting about as an male would in a room full of women. 

"The clothes-less wonder returns," Jean announced with an elaborate gesture of her hands. The others just laughed, trying with no avail to hide their grins. 

"I had an apron on," Warren protested, and they only laughed harder. Warren grumbled but sat down. "It was Betsy's idea. I was only being nice." He tried to look wounded, but the more he thought about it, the more the whole dreadful situation lightened. The next half an hour passed quickly. 

"Remember, it's your turn to vacuum. I'll see you at the mansion," Betsy murmured, kissing him passionately. Rogue and Ororo had the grace to blush, but Jean just smiled. They giggled all the way out the door. 

* * * 

The vacuum whirred loudly as Warren slid across the floor. He might as well get the dreadful chore done before he had to go the mansion. The music blared loudly in background, and Warren sang in a voice anyone rarely heard. 

"She wanted to test her husband, she knew exactly what to do. A pseudonym to fool him, she couldn't have made a worse move. She sent him scented letters and he received them with a strange delight!" He belted out, dancing happily with the vacuum. "Just like his wife, but how she was before the tears, and how she was before the years flew by, and how she was when she was beautiful, she signed the letter . . .!" He did a gallant leap through the air, and landed on the other side of the cleaning device. He swayed it about passionately. He flailed his hands about madly, moving to the music. He looked like an idiot, but he didn't care. He gasped in a breath and continued, ". . . All yours, Babooshka, Babooshka, Babooshka-ya- ya!" 

He landed on his knees and looked up, expecting to see the invisible audience he was preforming for. He was sorely disappointed. Betsy and Rogue stood there, both with amused expressions. "Betsy forgot her purse," Rogue explained, while Betsy grabbed it from the table. "Ah had no idea you were so musically inclined." 

He was dying. Within the span of forty minutes, he had managed to totally humiliate himself. His face burned purple, but he lifted his head proudly. 

"Ah would love ta see the nude version of that," Rogue commented, "or maybe Remy would be willing to perform that for me, with that cute little apron." Betsy smiled as Rogue's mind buzzed with ideas. 

"Goodbye again, luv," Betsy said in all seriousness, but the minute the door closed, her loud laughing betrayed her. 

* * * 

By the time Warren arrived, he was actually looking forward to the training session. The morning had been enough for him. He just wanted something normal. 

He walked down the Danger Room and looked to see if anyone was there to greet him. They weren't. Instead, he headed to the change rooms to quickly get dressed. He opened his locker only to see a fluorescent pink apron staring him in the face. He sighed, for information travelled fast in the X-Men. He quickly dressed in uniform, and then returned to the Danger Room. 

"You're late," Scott said coming up behind him. Warren sighed inwardly. Lecture time. "When I say seven o'clock, I mean seven o'clock, Warren. I'm not going to rearrange my schedule just so you can goof around all morning." 

"I wasn't goofing off!" Warren protested. "I'm here, aren't I? Okay, maybe a bit late, but I had to vacuum." It came out sounding like a whine though Warren had not meant it to be. 

"Vacuuming?" If Warren could have seen his eyebrows, they would have been raised. 

"Vacuuming." 

"That's all?" Warren gave him an odd look at the suspicious tone. "I seem to have heard a radically different story from Jean. Nude cooking? Warren's hit parade? The last thing we need is for you to get arrested for disturbing the peace and indecent exposure!" 

Warren blushed. "Nobody could see or hear me. I pay enough for that apartment, I should hope it's soundproof, and furthermore, what I do in the privacy of my home is my business. If I want to walk around naked in an apron, I have every right to do so!" 

"I just want you to be careful. With the FOH running around half crazy because of Creed's assassination, and Operation: Zero Tolerance, we can't afford any trouble. Next thing you'll be telling me is you've been ticking off FOH members for fun." Scott glared like only a zealous leader can, and Warren looked to the ground. "Please, Warren tell me you're joking." 

"It was just some moron on the phone this morning. I sort of made fun of the guy. It was harmless. The guy was spouting death threats for Heaven's sake. What was I supposed to do?" 

"Hang up." 

"Well, yeah, maybe I could have done that, but ah, to hell with this. I'm sorry, I'll be more careful next time, though I still can't believe you're getting mad at me for this." Warren pouted for a while and Scott sighed deeply. "How long is this going to take?" 

"Maybe an hour if you hurry up," Scott said. "Just try to survive as well as you can in there. I'll start you on lower difficulty levels and work upward. Remember, the object of this is to see how well you are in combat with these wings. I've turned the safeties off; and I'll be watching." Scott walked into the control room. "You ready?" 

"Yes," Warren yelled up. He was nervous, he shouldn't be but he was. He'd been through these sessions before, but he never had to prove himself before. He was painfully aware that his wings didn't exactly make him the most powerful X-Man around. He hadn't been much of a fighter before Apocalypse, and now with his old wings back, he wasn't sure he could even be of any help as a superhero. 

He stood, battle ready, waiting for whatever was coming to come. Several battles drones appeared and began shooting at him. He took to the air without a second thought. His wings beating rapidly, he swept around them, directing their gunfire towards them. An old strategy but one that worked nonetheless. The drones blasted each other out of their misery. 

"Level Two," Scott announced from the deck. 

Warren dodged the flying spikes that were coming towards his heads. He moved gracefully through the rings and bars, testing his reflexes. He avoided the large columns that sprouted at him from all directions. 

"Level Three." 

Warren quickly got out of the way of Pyro's flame and Blob's huge body as it fell from the sky. He had to use his brains for this one. Oh God, what brains? 

He felt something hot hit his wings. Mystique stood behind him with a laser in hand. He flipped over backwards and kicked her hard in the head. She fell, much easier here than it would have been in real life. He charged Pyro, which sent the Australian man flying. The Blob grabbed his wing and impaled him into the concrete. Warren struggled to get free, but it was of no use; the Blob was beating him to a bloody pulp. 

"Computer, end program!" Warren hollered as his head hit the concrete for the second time. 

"Action not permitted. Security clearance one requested." 

"Damn it, Scott! Stop the goddamn program!" He looked up to see him talking to Cannonball and ignoring him. Some instructor indeed. Through the pounding in his head and his bloody face, he tried to remember the code. What code? Security Clearance One, he didn't have that one or at least he couldn't remember if he had that one. They all tended to blur after awhile. 

"Poor, pretty boy Angel." Blob laughed as he bashed Warren's face into a near by wall. Suddenly, Blob disappeared to be replaced only by air. Warren fell to the ground and immediately brought his hands up to his bloody face. 

"Warren? Are you okay?" Scott rushed in, followed by Cannonball. Warren didn't answer. "It is your eyes? Dear god, are you blind? Is it a concussion? Your legs? Damn it, Warren, answer me!" Scott pulled Warren's hands away from his face as Cannonball grabbed a first aid kit. 

"My nose! The goddamn program broke my nose. Thank you, Scott. That's just what I needed. Get away from me!" Warren yelled, shoving Sam away. 

"Ah'm sorry, Angel, this is mah fault. Ah shouldn't have come ta talk ta him. Ah am so sorry," Sam rambled on. He offered Warren a Kleenex for his bleeding nose. 

"No, it's my fault. I should have been watching," Scott apologised, pulling Warren to his feet. "Warren, I'm going to take you to see Hank. You might have a concussion." 

"I'd be surprised if I didn't," Warren muttered walking towards the door. His voice sounded distorted and nasal. His whole face ached, and his arm throbbed. "This has just been one hell of a day." He had been able to live through the humiliation of the day with a smile, he had tolerated the bastard who called him this morning, but this, this had just destroyed the remainder of his good mood. Figures it would be the high and mighty Cyclops who destroyed it. It was just like him. 

"I really am sorry," Scott said as he lead Warren by the arm to the infirmary. Warren merely growled in anger. His nose, his poor, formally perfect nose. 

"Oh my, what has happened to our previously impervious bird of feather?" Hank bounded in. He grabbed a washcloth and stuffed it up against Warren's face. 

"Scott broke it," Warren mumbled through the white rag. "He broke my bloody nose." 

"Scott! I'm surprised at you. I didn't think you the type of person to go around breaking other peoples schnozes. Shameful!" Hank joked, grabbing a huge piece of gauge and stuffing it into Warren's nose. 

"Ow! Jeez, Hank, that hurts," Warren whined, as Hank poked at his swollen nose. He was intentionally whining now. "It is okay? Will it heal?" 

"I'll have to reset it, but yes. It may hurt to blow it for about a month, though," Hank said as he grabbed his nose between his fingers. "Warren, this shall hurt quite a bit. Do you want any medication?" 

"No, just get it over with!" Warren said angrily. Hank bit his lip as he applied pressure on Warren's bridge. He moved it quickly and a loud snap ran out. Warren screamed shrilly, and mentally swore he'd get Scott for this. 

"Sorry about that," Hank apologised. "Aspirin?" He offered the bottle to Warren, who gladly accepted. Warren popped two pills in. "Your face is pretty . . . mashed up, for lack of a better word. You most likely have a concussion. I want you to stay here and rest. I will monitor you and make sure you do not die." 

"Thank you for being so blunt, Hank," Warren said sarcastically, lying down. He felt like sleeping now. His head was pounding. The medical bed was uncomfortable, but he didn't care. He was out like a light the minute his head hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Warren sings is "Babooshka", and it can be found on Kate Bush's CD "Never For Ever."


	3. Chapter 3

Warren lay on his stomach, watching Hank and whining all the while. "Please, please, let me go, Hank, my very best friend. I'm fine, really, I am so fine. I'm all better, please, I can't stand it any longer. Let me go." 

"Warren, I shall repeat this once more. You may have a concussion, and your nose has been suffered the fate most fine china will in their short life spans. I cannot let you go," Hank murmured, tapping quickly on the computer. "Now, stop bothering me." 

"I wouldn't bother you if I wasn't here." Warren paused thoughtfully, figuring this was the wrong approach. He could . . . sneak out. With the greatest of ease, and without making a sound, he slid off the bed. He began crawling towards the door, praying that Hank wouldn't notice. 

"Warren?" Hank said from his chair. "You would not be trying to escape my humble domain, would you?" 

"Of course not Hank. I just . . . lost my . . . contact lense." 

"Need I remind you of your mutant eyesight?" 

"Good point. I guess I was just confused." Warren climbed back into the bed. "I'm hungry." 

"Warren, honestly, do you ever let up?" Warren winced. Hank was pulling the ‘parent' tone on him. "Just stay where you are until I say otherwise. I'll put on some music to calm your hyperactive soul." 

The intro gave it away, and Warren knew the word of his ‘show' had spread even to Hank in the basement. " _Our little Army Boy, is coming home from B.F.P.O., I've a bunch of purple flowers, to decorate a mammy's hero. Mourning in the aerodrome, the weather warmer, he is colder, four men in uniform to carry home my little soldier._ " The music blared, and Warren smiled dryly at Hank. 

"I thought you might enjoy this, but no dancing, my feathered friend. You are ill, and I do not believe our vacuum cleaner can handle your overzealous feet." Warren frowned and lay back down, letting the music sooth him. 

"What a waste, Army Dreamers," he murmured under his breath before finally falling asleep. 

* * * 

The fog was thick, impossible to see through. The sound of gunfire and grenades blasted in the background. Commander Warren Worthington lay back in the trench, waiting for the signal to send his men out. 

"Sir?" Lt. Henry McCoy yelped, sliding into the mud. "Captain Summers has just given us the signal to move out." 

"Okay, everybody, it's time. Grab your guns, we're moving out!" Worthington shouted, waving them over. 

"Sir!" Lt. Betsy Braddock hollered, "this is suicide. We should pull out before we're slaughtered!" 

"Nobody asked your opinion, Braddock, now get back in line with the other men." Worthington waved her back in. Had he thought about it, he would have realised she was a woman, but he had been given orders not to think, and besides, it hurt his head. 

They moved quickly over the top, charging the German soldiers. He drove with his gun ready for a fight. Beside him, Braddock and McCoy approached with similar plans. Worthington ran and ran until his foot snagged something. He looked down in horror at his snared foot, wrapping in barbed wire. He pulled at his foot, but slipped in the mud, his flesh being scratched by the sharp wire. He cried in agony as huge white wings sprouted from the tears in his back. He heard gunfire and saw his men fall all around him, so close he felt their breath on his wet flesh as they were savagely murdered. Disgusted with the sight, he looked up at the wings, which were now dyed red with blood. Worthington struggled in the wire, fighting desperately to escape, but he was stuck without any means of escape. 

* _Kill him then string his body up for all to see. Crucify the poor little Angel boy_ ,* a German hissed and bent down to his level. * _I am Captain En Sabah Nur, and I will be your destruction!_ * 

"No, please," Worthington moaned in protest as Nur ripped him from the wire, taking his precious wings with it. Worthington screamed into the dark night, his war torn face illuminated by the flares of blasts of other wars being fought as he lost his. 

* * * 

Warren's blue eyes flew open as his head hit the ground. He blinked a few times, but didn't attempt to move. He didn't feel very good anymore. He felt furry hands on him, pulling him back to the bed. He said nothing. He thought the dreams had stopped for good. The dreams were supposed to have stopped, now that he knew he was _free_. 

"Warren? Warren?" Hank said up above him. "Are you okay? Warren? _Warren?!_ " 

"My head hurts," was the most appropriate response he could muster. "I think I'll go back to sleep now." His eyes began to drift closed, but Hank lightly slapped him back to consciousness.. 

"No! Stay awake, my friend," Hank forced him to sit up, and Warren felt ill at the sudden and jerky movement. Warren tried to make it to his feet, but he vomited all over the floor instead. "Oh my stars and garters." 

"I don't feel so good," Warren mumbled as another wave of nausea passed over him. 

"Oh my stars and garters, indeed," Hank exclaimed, picking him up and trying frantically to get him into the bathroom. They made it but with little time left to spare. Warren moaned pitifully and threw up again. "You appear a bit aquamarine, Warren. I believe I can officially diagnosis your condition as a concussion." Warren dignified that observation with another round of regurgitation. 

"What's going on . . . ah!" Bobby cried as he slipped and fell, landing on the metal floor with a loud thump. "Shit!" 

"Oh my stars and garters, cubed." Hank stole a glance back to where Bobby lay sprawled, lying in the ‘surprise' Warren had left him. "Warren is feeling ill, Bobby-boy." 

"No kidding," Bobby said, standing up and looking a bit ill himself. "I think I'll go take a shower." 

"That would probably be the best of ideas, yes." Hank turned his attention back to Warren, who looked more than a bit dazed. "Warren?" 

"I'm okay," he muttered, sinking slowly to the ground. Hank caught him and forced him back to his feet. "Or maybe not." He bent over the toilet bowl again and Hank sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon. 

* * * 

"I have never witnessed anything like this before in my cultured life. He was fine one moment, the next sicker than a hungover Gambit, and now this." Hank gestured madly at Warren, who lay delirious on the infirmary bed. Warren murmured incoherent words, occasionally returning to his senses. 

"What's wrong with him?" Bobby asked, having returned to check on his friend after his shower. "He's looking a bit . . . slimy." 

"I have absolutely no intellectual hypothesis, my frozen friend. I believe him to have a concussion, but his symptoms are off the scale." Hank checked his temperature again. "Oh my goodness gracious." 

"What?" Bobby asked, peering over his shoulder. Judging by the length of the red fluid in the glass tube, that wasn't good. "106 degrees? Hank, this is bad, isn't it?" 

"Indubitably. Help me get him to the showers. We must get his temperature down . . . now." Hank grabbed one arm, draping it over his shoulder while Bobby grabbed the other one. 

"No, please," Warren moaned, sweat running down his face, his entire body, shaking violently, shivering. Hank and Bobby continued to rush him down the hall and into the showers. Remy looked at them both then to the oddly hued Archangel. He stepped away. 

"Thank you a thousand fold," Hank said, as Bobby lowered the temperature of the water. Warren shivered viciously, curling up into the fetal position on the floor. "Not too cold, the last thing we need if for our bird of a feather to go into cardiac arrest." 

"Mon dieu, what's wrong wit' de man?" Remy asked, staring at Warren, who was turning paler by the second. 

"We have no idea, gumbo," Bobby answered, monitoring the temperature of the water. "But he's sick, very sick." 

"No, please, don't hurt me," Warren mumbled as Hank tried to pry him out of the position. 

"I'm not going to hurt you, my friend," Hank whispered soothingly, trying to talk sense into a delusional man. "We're here to help." 

" Never . . . told me . . . would . . . hurt like this, like being ripped apart, like in the tunnels. I only wanted my . . . wings . . . back." Remy, Hank and Bobby exchanged uneasy glances. "No. Please. No more. It hurts . . . so much," he whimpered, shaking his head back and forth. "We had a deal . . . soul wasn't part of . . . deal . . . no . . ." 

"What's he talking about?" Bobby asked quietly, watching him mumble nothing more than sounds now. Hank just gave Bobby a look, while Gambit looked oddly sad, as if remembering something. "It's Apocalypse, isn't it? We shouldn't have heard that, should we?" Hank shook his head no. "He said deal, didn't he?" 

* * * 

Warren opened his ice blue eyes slowly, feeling disoriented and sore. Hank was asleep at his desk. Seven cups of age old coffee resembling mud surrounded his head like a halo. Betsy was crouched over in a chair, muttering about some of her favourite things in a sing-song voice as she sleep peacefully. 

Warren threw his legs over the side painfully, pausing to catch his breath. His open- backed gown let the chilly air in, freezing his blue skin. He carelessly ripped the IVs out of his arms, wincing in pain as he realised he shouldn't have done than, and stood up, wavering back and forth on shaky legs. 

Already he was feeling better, and he walked slowly out of the room, keeping the back of the gown closed with one hand. He just needed to get outside and spread his wings then he'd be okay. Flying always helped. 

It was late and the air chilly, but the cleanliness of the whole outdoors experience helped clear his system. He remembered vaguely being sick, but it lacked vividness or reality. It was like a dream, not real and just barely remembered. 

"Warren Kenneth Worthington the Third!" Jean exclaimed shrilly from the doorway, glaring like an overprotective mother. "What do you think you're doing? It's absolutely freezing outside. You'll catch your death! Why aren't you downstairs? Hank didn't let you leave, did he? You aren't supposed to be up here, are you?" 

Warren turned on her slightly, frowning deeply but attempting to remain mellow. "I am not a child, Jean. You do not need to speak to my like I am your idiot toddler that just freed the birds from their cages." 

"I wouldn't have to act like that if you had any sense in that head of yours," Jean retorted, dragging him inside. "I swear, Warren, sometimes you just don't think. You're going to get yourself killed!" 

"I already have," Warren responded, slapping her hand away from him. "But you never gave a damn about me then, did you? You were too preoccupied with Scott and his inability to cope properly with _any_ stressful relationship." 

"Warren," Jean said calmly, her anger dissipating. "It wasn't like that at all. I tried to help, I did, but you were so withdrawn at the time, and you didn't really die. You're here now, aren't you? You're alive." 

Warren remained silent, suddenly preoccupied from the thin line of blood trickling down his arms from where the IVs had been. It was a striking contrast against his blue skin, and he hated it, he hated looking at it, seeing what he was, what he looked like all because of him, because of Apocalypse. 

"Warren, you're alive." 

But he paid her no mind, ignored what she was saying because he knew it wasn't true, and as the blood continued to ooze down his skin, he knew it couldn't be. He should be healed by now, he shouldn't be bleeding, but he was and that terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is "Army Dreamers" by Kate Bush, and it is found on the CD "Never For Ever."


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't even open your mouth, Hank," Warren warned him, raising a hand. "I shouldn't have gone upstairs, I shouldn't have gone outside, I shouldn't have spoken to Jean the way I did, and I shouldn't have tore the IVs out of my arm." 

"I was simply going to say close the back of your gown." Hank smiled, retrieving bandages from the cabinet. "Though our fiery telepath did inform me of your escapade. She is quite concerned for your well-being, my finely feathered friend." 

"She's concerned for everybody's well-being," Betsy muttered bitterly, massaging her cramped neck. "I don't think she realises it, but most of us can take care of ourselves just fine with zero help from her." 

"My point exactly," Warren replied, sitting back down on the bed as Hank began wrapping the wound left by the IVs in his arm. Betsy raised a purple eyebrow at the injury, recalling that Warren had claimed he healed quickly, and was about to mention it when Warren shook his head ever so slightly, missed by Hank but caught by Betsy. "So, am I going to live, Hank?" 

Hank nodded slowly, quickly checking his temperature. "Everything appears to be back to normal, but I am asking you to take it easy. You almost died last night from a concussion when you shouldn't have." 

Warren gave no response to that, fearing now for the worse but saying nothing. There was something strange going on in his body, something he didn't understand, and until he could figure out what exactly that was on his own, he would say nothing about it. 

"Betsy has agreed to monitor you for the next few days as a precaution. If you feel ill of any sort, _tell her_." Hank sharply emphasised the last two words, glaring at Warren to reinforce his point. Warren nodded briefly, turning to leave. Hank grabbed him by the arm. "Warren, my friend, I have known you for a very long time, and I know you like to keep things to yourself, but I am asking you as a friend to tell me when something is wrong." 

Warren stared at him, meeting the blue-furred X-Man's eyes. "I'll try, Hank." 

Hank let go of his arm, realising that was the best response he was going to get, and went back to his work, praying silently to himself that Warren wasn't digging his own grave. Hank had run all the standard tests and all had come back negative, but despite his belief in the trustworthiness of science, he couldn't help but think there was something more . . . apocalyptic going on. 

* * * 

"Will you be staying for lunch, my friends?" Ororo asked, stirring a big pot of chowder, occasionally adding sweet smelling spices with delicate movements. "This is more than enough here for the both of you." 

Betsy looked to Warren, who was staring into his own world and seemed neither to care or hear Ororo's question. "Yes, thank you." 

Bobby wandered into the kitchen, looking as though he had just woke up. His hair was mess, and he was clad in old jeans and a wrinkled shirt. "What's that smell?" 

"Clam chowder, Robert," Ororo replied, slicing bread as a companion to the food. 

"Mmm," Bobby moaned weakly, sitting down beside Warren. Warren turned his head slowly to look at him, aware suddenly of his presence when he had been oblivious to everybody else's. "You aren't going to puke again, are you?" 

Warren blinked in surprise at the sudden question before answering slowly, "no, I don't think so." 

Betsy chuckled softly, seeing the look of confusion of her lover's face. "Bobby had a rather fun experience last night." 

"Fun?" Bobby huffed under his breath. "Disgusting comes to mind. That's what it was, a gross version of a slip and slide, only the floor and Warren's vomit replaced the usually fun yellow carpet and water." Bobby stared darkly at Warren, attempting to look menacing but failing miserably. "Don't worry, buddy, I forgive you for it." 

Warren looked at him with amusement. "I don't need your forgiveness, Bobby. As I understand it, you did it all by yourself. I can't forgive you for being a meathead, not when it comes so naturally to you." 

"Funny guy," Bobby muttered, ignoring Betsy's stifled laugh. "Nice nose, by the way, Warren, purple suits you." 

"Touched a nerve, have I?" Warren retorted. "Resorting to personal attacks, that's pitiful Bobby, and at least my nose doesn't normally look like this." 

"That's because I didn't have a nose job when I was nineteen," Bobby replied with a grin, and everybody in the kitchen stopped what they were doing, turning to stare at Warren. 

"You promised you wouldn't say anything about that," Warren hissed, turning a light shade of purple. It had been done in a moment of a insane vanity, and though he did not regret the move, he hadn't wished it to be public knowledge. 

Betsy grinned in disbelief. "You had your nose done, and you never told me? We could have shared stories, Warren. I had mine done when I was a model. A nice nose it was, I only regret I don't have it any longer." 

Bobby slapped his forehead. "God, they deserve each other. I wonder what else about them is fake." Warren and Betsy both gave him dirty looks. "Hey, I didn't mean to suggest anything, no, not me." 

"What are we talking about?" Jean asked, entering the kitchen with Scott close behind, both allotting daunting looks to Warren. 

"Betsy and Warren's nose jobs." 

"And I'm going to need another one after that fiasco in the Danger Room," Warren muttered, under his breath but loud enough for Scott to hear. 

"I turned my back on you for one second, Warren, it's not my fault you couldn't handle yourself in there," Scott said, strangely calm in his attack. "That was a program the kids use over in Massachusetts. You should have been able to do that on your own." 

"You put a security lock on it, Scott. If it was so damn easy, why the hell couldn't I stop it myself?" 

Scott neared Warren, who stood in a stance that suggested the fight might turn physical. "Because I know you, and I know how you can be. You have flat out refused the last six training sessions I demanded of you. I wanted to see what you could do, and you proved your high and mighty worthiness." 

Warren's ice blue eyes snapped open in anger, and he charged at Scott, grabbing him by the red shirt. "Listen, I've put up with your crap for the better part of seven years, but I won't ever allow you to ever make light of what I went through with _him_ , Scott, or use it as an insult as you're doing right now. Do you hear me, _Slim_? If I ever hear you say that again, I won't be responsible." 

"You never are responsible, Warren," Scott snapped, ripping Warren's pale blue hands away from his shirt. "That's your problem. I gave you the easiest program I thought you could manage, you failed pathetically, and you try to blame it on me. Perhaps, you should accept the fact it may have been your fault, not mine." 

"I accept the fact you said you'd cover me, and you didn't. I'm sorry I'm not Archangel the Harbinger of Death anymore, Scott. I have to work at being overly violent again, and I'm glad of it. These wings, I'm still getting used to them, and for that reason alone, you should have been watching me, but now I can no longer kill if I slip up. I don't think you realise just how out of control I was with the metal wings. I could have killed you with a thought, truth be known, I came deadly close to it on more than one occasion, but I didn't." 

"You're teetering dangerously close to the edge here, Warren," Scott said calmly, straightening his shirt with unsteady hands. 

Warren stared darkly at him, taking short, deep breathes through clenched teeth. Opening his mouth in what would be a string of curses and harsh words, instead became a scream as he fell to his knees, clutching at his head. But beyond the pain, there was blood, warm and thick running from his nose, and he focussed on it, ignoring anything else around him. 

* _You are mine, you always were mine, and you will always be mine. Your life is nothing if not mine. Pretend what you want, my Angel of Death, but do not dare deny the truth. You are forever mine._ * 

Warren could see no source to the voice, other than feel that it was indeed in his mind, but he knew where it came from. He wasn't stupid, and he' recognise that voice anywhere. Grabbing close his legs to his body, he curled up into the fetal position, trying to protect himself from the mental onslaught. The words kept repeating, over and over again, never ending. 

* _Betts._ * It was weak cry, the most he could muster as his mind felt as though it was about to explode under the immense pressure. * _Help me._ * 

* _Warren? Use me, luv, use my strength, I'm here for you, just let me in._ * 

There were hands on him, touching the sides of his head, pulling him back, pushing him forward, tearing him apart. He did not react very well to telepathy, hadn't since Apocalypse, but he tried to let her in, tried not to fight it too much, but it was hard for him to allow someone into who he was. He had let Apocalypse, and Warren had been destroyed by the experience. 

And he was back in the kitchen, lying on his side, still tight in a curl and shaking as sweat raced down his face, chilling him to the bone. Betsy lay over him, protecting his body with hers like he knew she'd always do. He welcomed her warmth, forgetting where they were and pretending they were back home, safe and making love under a starry night. That's when he felt safest, when she became him, and he became her. He yearned for her love now. 

"Are they okay?" Bobby asked, daring not to near the couple as neither moved a muscle. 

"Jean, do you have any idea what just went on here?" Scott asked loudly, stepping closer to his red-headed wife. 

"Mental attack on Warren, and though the source is unknown, it was extremely powerful." Jean narrowed her green eyes, brushing her hair away from her face. "Personally? I'm surprised Betsy was able to do anything. It was out of her psychic level, but she did it. I wouldn't have been able to help him. Warren's mind, he has so many shields protecting him, I can barely read anything from him on a good day. He let them down for her." 

Scott nodded, looking down upon them. He nudged Warren with his foot, and a blue hand shot out, clasping around his ankle. "Do not touch me, Scott." 

Scott frowned, resisting the urge to step on his arm, and instead merely stepped away so Warren could no longer hold on. "As I said before, Warren, dangerously close you are to the edge, and when you finally fall over, there's going to be nobody there to catch you." 

Betsy lifted her head, moving past the pounding sensation, and instead glaring at the man she had once thought she loved. Now, he was more of an anal jerk than a dashing knight. "That's where you're wrong, Cyclops, because if Warren ever does fall, I'll be there for him. I promise you that much." 

The lovers moved to stand, each holding onto the other for support, for strength, and walking slowly but steadily, they began to walk, neither knowing where they'd end up, but both knowing wherever it was it had to better than where they were.


	5. Chapter 5

The waves crashed upon the shores of Brooklyn, creating a thick foam couple with a fine spray with every violent movement. The sounds were calming yet still, like a peaceful night in the country, undisturbed by everything going on in the city. 

Two pairs of shoes lay in the sand, lost in the dark. Betsy, with cuffs rolled to her knees, was trying to coach the hydrophobic Warren into the water. 

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, Betts, but it's not going to work," Warren said hesitantly, backing away from the coursing water. "I just don't like oceans, or seas, or lakes, or rivers, or bays, or every other natural body of water." 

"Come on, Warren," Betsy coaxed, stepping up to him with arms extended. "It's not that bad. It's nice, and I promise I won't let anything happen to you." 

Warren looked at her skeptically, before moving deeper into the ocean. He froze as something slimy ran across his feet. This was only one of many reasons he detested water, too many creatures he couldn't see. He has also watched ‘Jaws' one too many times. 

"You can't swim, can you?" Betsy asked, grabbing onto his hand as he teetered unsteadily in the water. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about, luv." 

"Oh, I'm not embarrassed," Warren amended quickly, standing in place until he could convince himself once again nothing was going to eat him. "My father tried to find people to teach me. I've had dozens of different instructors, but it didn't help. I sink no matter what I do, and with the wings, it's impossible." 

"But your bones are hollow, shouldn't you float instead?" 

Warren smiled. "There's a hell of a lot of logic in that theory, but I've never been one to follow the rules. My bones are denser than water, and air does have a mass. Combine that with my suspicious lack of body fat and huge, heavy wings, and I sink like a rock." 

"So, no life threatening experiences?" Warren shook his head. "Well, if it means anything, I'm quite the fish in water. Should, for any reason, you end up in the water, I'll be able to save you." 

Warren raised his blond eyebrows, stepping back at the sight of Betsy's sadistic grin. He was about to protest before Betsy splashed him with a huge wave of water. It knocked him back, and he sputtered helplessly, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes. "I cannot believe you just did that!" 

Betsy's grin died down somewhat as she neared him, ready to apologise. Instead of facing a wounded man, she was hit with a stream of water in her face. "You . . . you . . . you little sneak! I thought I'd hurt you!" Warren laughed, running from her as she tried desperately to soak him in return. She splashed about fiercely, ducking whenever he fought back, and soon they were both drenched to the bone, laughing and stumbling as they emerged from the ocean. 

They fell onto the sand, grasping each other tightly in strong arms. Thankful for the dark surroundings and near abandonment of the shore, Warren embraced Betsy strongly in a kiss, pulling her warm body snug against his. 

"I've never made love on a beach," Betsy murmured, peeling the wet shirt from her lover's back, massaging the tightly packed sinewy muscle with smooth hands. Tentatively, she encircled the base of his wings, loving the downy softness as new feathers grew in to replace the old. "I'd like to try it." 

Warren smiled, continuing to kiss down her tanned shoulders, slipping the straps of her tank top down her arm. "So would I, Ms. Braddock, so would I." 

* * * 

Later, they quietly sat on the beach, refusing to let each other go as the night grew darker, becoming lost in the silence and the fog. Betsy shivered slightly, immediately being warmed by Warren's snug body. "The water's so peaceful at night, so untouched by everything." 

"Yeah," Warren agreed quietly, thankful for Betsy's telepathy once again another young couple walked past, hands clasped and talking softly like lovers did on a special night. It hide them from scornful eyes, let him be himself without fear of reprimanding looks, let them sit together, unclad and loving it. "Sometimes I wish my life could be like that, just existing without being bothered by everything else." 

"It was Apocalypse today, wasn't it?" Betsy asked quietly, knowing she might wreck the incredible moment by mentioning the name, but she had to know. 

Warren froze for a brief second, ready to tear himself away, but he didn't, he couldn't, because she deserved an answer. "Yes, but other than that, I don't understand anything about it. I mean, he's never done _that_ before." 

"Are you scared?" Betsy inquired, leaning into him as she tenderly stroked the blue flesh on his arms. She no longer noticed the difference as vividly as she once did, but in the times when they were together alone, she appreciated the beautiful and exotic nature of his flesh. 

Warren stared out into the night with cold, ice blue eyes, blinking slowly before finally whispering his silent confession, "terrified." 

* * * 

"Careful," Betsy warned playfully as Warren stepped into the dark apartment, dropping his keys on the front table. "I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again." 

Warren chuckled ruefully. "Very funny, though we should unpack sometime soon, my love. It is getting a bit dangerous." It was in that particular moment Betsy chose to trip over a huge box that sat in the middle of the dark hallway. Unable to catch herself in time, she smacked into Warren, knocking the wind out of him, and they both fell onto the ground. They lay still for a brief second, dazed and breathless. "And you claim to be a ninja?" 

Betsy nodded with a smile, helping him up, once again mildly surprised at his light weight. It never ceased to amaze her that a man with his build, weighed less than her, much to her own dismay. "Let's just hope the neighbours don't wander over here wondering what the racket is." She looked at Warren, letting her glance stray lower with a teasing grin. "We might have to explain what we did with our clothes." 

"Not with the love of my life being a telepath, we won't." Warren wandered over to the answering machine, noticing the red light blink impatiently. "We have a message. Who wants to bet it's from Scott demanding I come into to make up the Danger Room session." 

Betsy laughed loudly as she disappeared into the kitchen. "I won't, the odds are too highly stacked in your favour." 

Warren smiled, pressing the play button with his middle finger. 

"Warren? Listen, I don't know if this is even your number anymore, but I had to try. Warren, I don't know what to do, God, I don't even know if this is really happening, but I need your help, Warren, please. I'm at a cafe, in Soho, called the Happy Teacup. If this is you, come as soon as you can." 

"Hon, who was it?" Betsy asked, entering the room. Warren turned to her slowly, pale and shaking. Betsy paused a moment in shock then darted to him, grasping him before his legs could give out. "Warren, who's the message from?" 

Warren shook his head, moving towards the bedroom and mumbling in shock, "this can't be happening to me, this cannot be happening to me." 

"Warren!" Betsy exclaimed, chasing after him. She found him on the bed, wrestling his lean legs into a pair of hip-hugger jeans. His hands were shaking violently, and he was unable to do up the buttons. Betsy placed her hand on his, easing his jerky movements. "Whatever it is, it has you trembling. What's wrong?" 

Warren bit his lip, shaking his head. "This can't be happening, Betts, not now." Warren stood up, brushing her off and running to the front door, sliding into his sandals. "I'm sorry I can't explain this to you right now, Betts, but I have to make sure it is for real first. Watch out for me, hon?" 

Though slightly angry at his explanation and worried at his irrational behaviour, she nodded. "Always, lover, always." 

* * * 

The Cafe was tiny, situated on the corner of a not too busy street, and completely empty, save for a few unsavoury patrons. Warren stared at it, wondering whether he should go in or merely staying out in the dark wondering if he should enter. Either way, he was terrified of what the night held in store for him. 

Placing an unsteady hand on the wooden door, he pulled it open, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He had forgotten his image inducer, but that was the least of his problems. He stepped into the cafe, the smoky atmosphere attacking his sensitive lungs. The scent reminded him of Wolverine, menacing and strong. 

His breath caught in his throat as he finally saw her, sitting quietly at a table, wrapped in a blanket and drinking coffee. Her dark hair fell in long curls over her shoulders, and her big, brown eyes caught his as their eyes met for the first time. 

"Warren!" She cried, throwing her arms around him in a strong hug. "I am so glad to see you. I was so scared I'd never find you." 

Warren stared at her, numb and confused. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? Sensing his hesitation, she let go, leading him back to the table. She offered him her coffee, but he shook his head no. 

"I'm so sorry to do this to you. If there had been any other way, I would have done it." She grasped his hands tightly, staring at the blue skin. He was still so unlike the man she remembered, and she was almost afraid of the differences. 

"You're dead," he muttered tearfully, fearing this was the mental breakdown he'd been expecting. All this stress in his life, it couldn't be good. He needed a break, a vacation. He needed normalcy in his bizarre life. "Oh God, you can't be here, you're dead." 

"I know I should be," she replied, blinking back tears, "but I'm not, Warren. I know this has happened before, but this time isn't like the last. Cameron Hodge has nothing to do with it, not this time. This time, this time I'm real, and I'm human. I am Candy Southern, reborn again and again." 

* * * 

Warren opened the door quietly, praying Betsy hadn't waited up for him, but the reflection of light on the ceiling told him everything. She was reading, and she knew the moment he had arrived home. Did she also feel his terror? 

Candy stood behind him, aware of every movement he made. She loved him so much it hurt, but it hurt even more to see his insouciance towards her. He had never been the most expressive person, but this was cold even for him. 

"Wait here?" He asked under his breath, and she nodded mutely. He disappeared into the next room, and she could hear a hushed conversation. She strained to here what was being discussed, but it wasn't coming out clearly. It was garbled somehow, very strange to her ears. 

"Candy? Can you come in here?" Warren called, snapping Candy back to the task at hand. Clutching the ratty blanket closer to her naked body, she walked into the spacious living room, gasping at the sight of the woman standing behind Warren. 

"You should have told me," Candy muttered, turning away quickly. 

"What was I supposed to say?" Warren protested, but the purple-haired woman hushed him, muttering soft words under her breath. Warren sighed deeply, and Candy turned back to him, her bearings gathered. "Candy Southern, this is Elisabeth Braddock. Betts, this Candy Southern, back from the dead." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Betsy said warmly with a smile, avoiding any touch on Warren's part. She did not need to flaunt what she had, and what Candy had obviously already lost. "I've heard a lot about you." 

"And I've heard absolutely nothing about you," Candy replied, jealous when her brain told her she shouldn't be. He had thought she was dead, she was dead, and he had every right to find somebody to replace her. She shouldn't have thought he'd wait for her. He should have waited for her! 

Betsy breathed in deeply. "I have some clothes you can borrow for the night, and some for tomorrow if you want them. You can stay here as long as you want. The guest room's ready for you." 

Candy smiled falsely. "That's very kind of you, thanks." 

Warren exhaled, wishing Betsy back as she left to find some clothes to lend the woman. He stared at Candy awkwardly, guilty for wishing she had never come, but even more guilty for not holding their pledge to love each other forever and ever. He loved Candy, but not in the way he once had. He had accepted her loss and moved on. He loved Betsy now. 

"How long have you been going out?" Candy asked, chewing her lip nervously. 

"About a year," Warren replied, refusing now to look at her. 

"Oh." Candy wandered over to a picture on the mantle of her and Warren together, smiling and hugging, in love. "She lets you keep this picture out?" 

Warren frowned slightly, hearing the tone of voice she used. "I can do what I want, but if you're asking if it bothers her, it doesn't. She has a picture of Thomas Lennox right up there, too, her former lover. We're very open with one another." 

"I'm sure you are." Candy placed the picture back gently, wondering just how upset Warren would be if she smashed the picture against the wall. "So that's what I am now, I guess, a former lover?" 

"I thought you were dead," Warren reacted immediately, reaching towards her, but Candy stepped away, avoiding his touch like the plague. "I still love you." 

"But not like you used to, right? You'd like us to be friends?" Candy replied snidely, wanting to just give him a swift punch to the nose and break it, if it wasn't so obviously broken already. 

Betsy stepped into the room, sensing the hostility directed from Candy at Warren and cleared her throat loudly, drawing the attention of both people. "I'm a bit taller than you are, but these should fit." 

"Is that how they measure breasts these days?" Candy growled under breath, taking the clothes from Betsy without even a simple thank you. "Can you show me my room?" 

"Third door on the left," Warren replied, moving to point, but by the time he did, Candy was long gone. Warren sighed deeply, walking into the master bedroom with Betsy on his heels. Dropping the jeans, he sat on the bed, wings pulled close to his body. 

Betsy discarded the robe she was wearing and sat behind him, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest. She buried her face in his wing, murmuring as she rocked back and forth upon her heels, trying to sooth her lover as he cried quietly into the cold night.


	6. Chapter 6

Warren heard the music faintly in the distance, sublimely erotic in its sound and shockingly familiar in its words. He opened one blue eye, seeing nothing but a purple haze surrounding his face like a fog. Betsy, sleeping quietly with her hot body pressed against his, every move igniting the parts of him she controlled. 

Moving slightly, he ran his thigh across hers, enjoying her softness as he massaged her gorgeous flesh. She hummed slightly, snuggling closer to him with a sensual squirm. Smiling, he lay content against her as the words to the music became clearer. 

" _Stepping out of the pages into the sensual world. Stepping out, off the pages into the sensual world._ " A strange melody of strings and drums. " _And then our arrows of desire rewrite the speech, mmh, yes, and then he whispered would I, mmh, yes, be safe, mmh, yes, from the mountain flowers? And at first with the charm around him, mmh, yes. He loosened it so if it slipped between my breasts he'd rescue it, mmh, yes, and his spark took life in my hand and, mmh, yes, I said, mmh, yes, but not yet, mmh, yes, mmh, yes._ " 

And realisation hit him like a shockwave, stunning him into a painful awareness. Candy was alive and here, in the next room while he lay with Betsy, choosing her over the woman who had been his lover for four years. That song, that was one of the many songs they had made passionate love to, but it was the one song they played during important times, the first time, the anniversaries, the most loving of all times was what that song symbolised. 

Any excitement he had felt, left him quickly and Warren sat up, fighting the horrible headache he now had. Like a defeated man, he climbed out of bed, searching for clothes fit to wear amongst the mess on the floor. 

Settling on the grey sweatpants Betsy threatened at least twice a day to throw out, he stood at the door to his room, suddenly unsure of whether or not he was willing to meet Candy face to face. Sure, they sort of got along last night, but God knows what a new day had done to her. Maybe it had all been one really bad dream, maybe she wasn't really alive at all, maybe this was all just one really bad joke on a cosmic level. 

But opening the door to see Candy on the couch as she stared at the black and white CD cover, he realised this was real, more real than he'd even let himself to believe. He had been damned again. 

"Good morning," Warren said, forcing a smile so fake he put every con man that ever existed to shame. 

Candy looked up, placing the CD case unto the glass table, and she looked at him apologetically. "Listen, Warren, I'm sorry about last night. I should never have expected a guy like you to remain single. I mean, you live for sex, right?" That comment hit Warren as physically as a slap in the face ever would, and he stared at her, stunned into silence. "Mr. Billionaire Playboy, that's who you are, right?" 

"I can't believe you'd even think that," Warren replied angrily, wondering when exactly Candy had become so intentionally cruel. 

"Oh, like you never cheated on me?" Candy retorted with a taunting smile. "Does _she_ know just how . . . frivolous you are?" 

Warren sputtered in anger, fighting for the right words, but try as he might, he couldn't find them. Candy laughed under her breath, shutting the music off and standing up, wearing Betsy's clothes, like she was Betsy or Betsy was her. Did she want that? Why had everything suddenly become so confused? 

And Betsy appeared in the doorway to the main bedroom, and Warren refused the urge to run to her, to use her strength when his own didn't seem to be enough. He loved Betsy, he'd give his life for her, but did he not owe Candy anything? He didn't know what to think, and that confused and frightened him more. 

"Good morning, Betsy," Candy said sweetly. "Warren and I were just discussing old times. Oh, and by the way, thanks for the clothes, they're _swell._ " Candy disappeared into the guest room, and Betsy didn't stop smiling until Candy was out of sight with the door closed. 

* _Is she always like this?_ * Betsy asked telepathically, the grin gone from her face. 

Warren frowned, starting up the coffee machine. * _She didn't used to be._ * Warren paused introspectively. * _Just how much of that did you hear?_ * 

Betsy swore softly as she nicked her finger slicing her bagel. * _All of it, and I think you should just ignore what she said. I know you, and I know she's throwing it all out of proportion._ * 

* _Maybe not,_ * Warren muttered mentally, watching the coffee drip slowly. * _I know we haven't really talked about it, but I'm not exactly . . . innocent._ * 

* _No more so than I anyway,_ * Betsy sighed, spreading a thick layer of cream cheese on her breakfast. * _I'm just not as obvious about it all. Sure, I've had a lover here or there, but nobody knows it. Your relationships are always so high profile. It's everybody's business._ * 

* _I never cheated on her._ * 

* _And I know you'd never cheat on me. I trust you enough to know that much. She's angry because you're with me now, jealous because she can't have you back. A blind person could tell you that. Give her time, Warren, and might I suggest a trip to Westchester?_ * 

Warren grimaced inwardly. * _Seems we always end up back there, doesn't it?_ * 

* * * 

"For soothe, Warren, are you trying to suggest that the lovely Candy Southern is _alive?_ " 

"I'm not suggesting anything, Hank, I'm _telling you_ Candy is alive. She called last night, and I brought her home. I'm thinking maybe you'd like to check her out, or something," Warren suggested weakly, "maybe prove she isn't who she says she is?" 

"You fail to believe her claims?" Hank inquired, chewing on the end of an already mangled pen. 

"I saw her die," Warren hissed, "twice." 

"Then who is to say Ms. Southern can't be resurrected once more? Our very own Jean Grey-Summers has done it countless times. For that matter, we saw you die, yet you're here alive, are you not?" 

"So everybody says," Warren commented quietly. 

"As we have another task at hand, I will let that particular utterance lay as it is." Hank sat down, looking intently at one of his oldest friends. "Tell me, Warren, does she seem like another person? Has she given you reason to suspect her allegations may prove false?" 

"Other than the fact she seems out to get me? Not really." Warren sighed deeply, running a blue hand through his blond hair. As he did, his wrist brushed against his face. The stubble gently scratched the sensitive flesh, and Warren inwardly hounded himself for not shaving. He didn't like looking like a mongrel; he wasn't Gambit. "It looks like her, it sounds like her, and for all intents and purposes, it's acting like an extremely upset Candy. Betts says she's angry at me for moving on and jealous because she can't have me back." 

"And what our dear Elisabeth speaks is reasonable. If what you say is true, and Candy Southern is once again alive, it is indeed likely she is suffering from severe mental anxiety." Hank stood up, moving towards the door. He gestured for Warren to follow, who did so, if not rather reluctantly. 

* * * 

Jean paid little attention to the coffee mugs as they crashed to the ceramic, shattering instantly. She paid even less attention as the hot coffee splashed against her leg. If she felt any pain, she gave no indication. She was in shock. 

"Candy?" Jean said, green eyes wide and jaw dropped. 

Candy smiled warmly. "Jean, you're looking well." 

Betsy rolled her eyes, wondering now if she could politely escape the orgy of falseness. She had done everything she could think of to be especially nice to Candy, which was something she found incredibly hard to do when the women was being such a witch. 

"You're alive?" Jean spluttered. "I saw you die!" 

Candy shrugged nonchalantly. "It seems death isn't as permanent as we all thought, Jean. You should know that better than anybody." 

Jean didn't even let the coldness of the comment stun her. "Yeah, I guess I do. So, what happened?" 

"I haven't any idea," Candy replied, checking herself in the mirror, aware of how she did not fill out the clothes as well as dear, old Elisabeth probably did. Her face was pretty, but not exotic, her body was slim, but not voluptuous, and she was human, not mutant. 

"Isn't that always how it is? Have you eaten?" Jean asked, ushering her into the kitchen. Candy shook her head, and Jean began busily working to prepare her lunch. Candy watched in amusement at Jean's innocent thrill, and a small flash of light caught her eye. 

"You're married?" Candy asked, seeing the plain and delicate ring on her left hand. 

Jean smiled. "Yes, I finally proposed to Scott. We've been married a bit over a year" 

Candy looked around, noticing Elisabeth was gone. That heightened her spirits somewhat, but the anger was still festering in the fresh wound. "So, tell me, Jean, how close are Warren and Elisabeth?" 

Jean sucked in a quick breath of air through her teeth, wondering if it was her place to say anything about that at all. But if Warren hadn't told her, and knowing him he wouldn't, did Candy not have the right to know? "I'm assuming they're pretty close. It took them a while to get settled, with all their injuries and whatnot, but they seem happy now." 

"How long have they been . . . close, physically close?" 

Jean paused before giving her answer. "It really isn't my place to say." 

Candy's face dropped, and she looked at Jean with sad eyes. "Please, Jean, I have to know. You know how Warren is, he won't tell me. The man I love is with another woman. I _deserve_ to know." 

Jean sighed deeply, bringing two sandwiches to the table. "About the entire year, I guess. That part of their relationship didn't take very long." Jean had never wanted to know that, but her telepathy always dragged other people's personal lives into her own. "Don't tell him I told you please." 

"I won't," Candy promised, looking up as Warren, Hank and Elisabeth entered the room. Her depressed mood returned immediately, and she looked distastefully upon them, staring darkly. An unspeakable comment or two ran through her head, and Elisabeth's head quickly shot up, catching her eye. 

* _You've got to be careful around telepaths, Candy,_ * Betsy warned calmly, protectively clamping Warren's hand in her own as a protective reflex. * _You never know who's listening._ * 

Candy smiled dolefully, resisting the strong urge to chuckle at the woman's stupidity. Did she honestly think Candy didn't know what she did? She knew everything about dear Elisabeth, more than she could even begin to ponder. The telepathic witch would listen only to what Candy wanted her to hear. 

Wary of her cold smile, Betsy moved closer to Warren, ill at ease and uncomfortable. Try as she might, she couldn't convince herself Candy was harmless. Candy was human, she presented no great threat to the telepathic ninja, but there was something about Candy that paralysed Betsy whenever they caught each other's eye. To alarm Betsy even more was the fact she read nothing from Candy's mind save for those two, harsh comments, as Candy possessed powerful shields so similar to Warren's in nature, they bothered her greatly. Candy Southern was not as she appeared to be. 

Warren looked to Betsy, silently wondering why Betsy had suddenly moved so close to him. She had been the first to admit she didn't much care for public displays of affection. A kiss here or there in the public eye, hand in hand the most common act, a protective hug if she was feeling particularly romantic. Even though he knew she had hidden them both from view on the beach, the fact she even suggested they make love had been odd. So when she was pressed so tightly against him, his fingers tightly interwoven with her own, he had to wonder just what was wrong. 

* _Betts, hon, is there something troubling you?_ * He asked, struggling to initiate the mental speak. He so hated the idea of telepathy, could barely even allow himself to trust somebody that could steal everything he held sacred from him with a thought, he found it ironic he trusted Betsy so much. If the time should come when he had to let someone into his sordid memories, he would trust Betsy fully. 

Betsy looked to him, her usually bright purple eyes dim and scared, the red tattoo over her eye adding to her solemn appearance. * _Nothing._ * 

Warren winced inwardly, knowing immediately she was lying. She didn't lie often, far less than he did, but when she did, it had to be about something important. He knew this was neither the time nor the place to discuss it further, not when it was a potential fight waiting to happen, so he let it drop. 

Warren tuned back in to the present to hear Hank babbling about everything that came to his mind, becoming the human dictionary they all loved. He must be excited, Warren thought with a smile, I can barely understand the words he's using. 

And unprepared he was for the mental onslaught that awaited him. 

* _Mine!_ * The cry resounded in his head, and Warren stepped back, tripping over a box of recycled objects. He hit the ground, wings the first to hit the ground, twisting under his muscular body as the rest of him followed. * _Mine!_ * 

"Get out of my mind!" Warren cried in a scream, bringing his hands to cradle his pounding brain as the word kept coming, attacking him like a vicious predator. "You can't have me! I won't give myself back to you! I will never be yours again!" 

And the intensity increased, tearing through his consciousness as he screamed and cried, thrashing about as his mind was attacked. This was death, and he was it, and never more so in his life did he wish he truly was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song, ‘The Sensual World,' belongs to Kate Bush, from her CD ‘The Sensual World.'


	7. Chapter 7

The mind of an Angel was a cold place, icy and dead. Warren couldn't remember a time when it hadn't been like that. He was sure there were moments of happiness that escaped his memory, but he could never recall them. He couldn't have possibly been born like this. God could not have been that cruel.

"Kathryn, I can see the head," the doctor said, peering above the hospital blankets. "One last push should clear it. On three, Kathryn, one, two, three, push!" 

"Oh, God!" She cried as she finally delivered her baby. The pregnancy had been hard and long, the baby two weeks over due. She was just glad it was over, and she never had to have another child. An heir had been produced. 

"You have a baby boy, Kathryn, congratulations." The red, messy baby was placed on her chest, crying loudly at the shock of being brought into the world. Kathryn smiled slightly, for the child appeared perfect nonetheless. Warren would be pleased she had given him a son. "Mr. Worthington, come in and see your boy." 

A dark-haired gentleman walked calmly into the room, immediately tending to his exhausted wife. "I wonder if this little boy realises he's going to be heir to one of the most elaborate private fortunes in the world." 

"Isn't he just perfect, darling? He's going to rule the world." 

This was his birth, his parents showing joy over his existence. How long had that lasted? A month, maybe two? But soon they forgot about their son, the fruit of their loins, leaving him to be raised by nannies and servants. Warren had never been enough to keep them occupied with his life. 

He turned away from the memory, unaware it had been inside his mind. He didn't care about his beginning, not when it was one big lie of false happiness. Every memory he had revolved around lies. He hated his mind; he hated being forced inside. It was deadening. 

His mindscape shook like a San Francisco earthquake. Every hit cracked a memory, but they hung only wounded, never shattered. He was not as weak as a mirror. He would not break simply because someone said he should. 

It was dark in his mind, so utterly cold and lifeless, Warren wondered if there was any light here at all. He could feel the blackness all around him, creeping upon his astral image. He would kill Apocalypse for this hell he had created, but then he should have killed him when he had the chance. Would that have erased all this blackness? Or was that task to be left to something else? 

"Warren, it's beautiful," Candy murmured, admiring the necklace and pendant. "It's even inscribed. I don't know what to say. Thank you, Warren." Warren helped her put the necklace on, brushing her dark hair away from her smooth neck. "Those other people don't know what they're talking about." 

Warren's face darkened slightly. "What do you mean?" 

"Well, you haven't even tried to get me into bed, and this is our fourth date." 

"They don't know anything about me," Warren muttered angrily, keeping his tone quite. 

Candy smiled, brushing a stray hair away from his gorgeous face. She had never imagined finding romance with him, but here they were, together as a couple. She wasn't sure if she loved him yet, but there was something here, blossoming and growing like a flower. "No, they don't." 

Warren pushed the memory away, burying his head in his lap. Why had she changed so much? Had death done something to her to make her so angry and cold? If he had been able to push aside his feelings sooner, he could have saved her, but he let the sadness and hate overtake him. He _should_ have saved her. 

Another shockwave hit and pieces of his mind continued to crack and break, pieces falling into the black abyss. Whatever had been lost had probably never been worth anything to begin with. He could survive with pieces of himself missing, for he always had before. He was a survivor. He had no choice but to live as a broken man. 

He pulled one feathered wing to his body, leaving the left wing, the metal one, out stretched, far away from where it could do harm. His skin was a creamy blue, sickly and smooth looking, his facial features were sharp and jagged, and his piercing blue eyes stared into the void, the eyes that had survived and remained constant in his life in spite of everything else. 

Astral images showed the true person within the shell, and Warren had found himself to be shattered and confused, an amalgamation of everything he had ever been, good and bad. 

"Warren?" Jean asked, approaching him in the darkened room, reaching out to touch him, but his mighty wings unfurled, protecting him from the assault. "Warren, we'd like you to come to dinner tonight. The kids prepared the meal themselves." 

"Go away," Warren growled in a husky voice, clutching his legs closer to his cold body. Try as might, he could find no warmth to soothe the hate in his soul. He could kill her now for this interruption. Just one wrong move . . . 

Jean frowned, moving away from the shaking wings. "How long are you planning on staying up here, Warren? Forever? You can't continue to hide from the world. You have to learn to live again and forget Apocalypse." 

"Go away," Warren tried again, his wings shaking, producing a soft, melodic hum. He closed his eyes and jean moved closer to him, moving to touch is face. He grabbed her hand, yanking it violently away. He should kill her now, kill her, kill, no, find control, control. "Don't touch me! _Do not ever touch me!_ " 

Jean jumped away, staring a him. "What did he do to you?" 

Warren stared emotionlessly at her, burying the feeling down again, deep inside his soul. If he didn't feel, there would be no pain. "He destroyed me, Jean, he killed the man I was and left this monster in his wake. I am dead." 

Another quake and that memory cracked, a tiny little break in the fragile glass. How much longer could he withstand this attack? A couple days? A few hours? Another minute? Would it kill him? Or do much worse and make him a slave again? 

Time had slowed. Nothing was moving anymore, nothing was aging or dying or living. Everything had simply stopped. 

Warren could feel Betsy around him like a veil, covering him like armour. He knew she felt him too, and occasionally their minds would touch, and he'd feel the spark of love pass between them. It kept him sane. It kept him fighting. 

All he could do was wait, wait and hope he was strong enough to survive the battle. He knew he could do it because he had the will. Apocalypse would never control his life as he had. Warren would rather die than live in that hell again. 

Nobody would ever truly understand what had been done to him. Betsy tried, she listened to his screams while he slept and to his irrational rants when he awoke from one of those soul- searing nightmares, but she'd never know what Apocalypse did to his soul. He could never tell her, or she'd be disgusted with him. 

His body had lived through the torture, the wounds healing quickly after the fact, but his mind could never forget what he saw, what had been shown to him. He had seen death in its purest form, over and over again until he was Death. He was sure his soul had been forever hardened, but then light had come in the vessel of another. 

"Warren," Betsy breathed sensually, breaking the kiss abruptly. She could feel his breath on her and the steady pump of his heart beneath her hands. 

Warren looked at her, moving a stray strand of vibrant purple hair away from her face with a gentle hand. They were both uncomfortable on the couch, but her warm body above him, the soft movement of flesh every time she shifted, made him forget that discomfort. He only wanted to be near her. "Betsy." 

Betsy kissed him again, sucking gently on his bottom lip as he ran his hand through her silky hair, tracing her spine down her back. Betsy broke away again, smiling softly as he pulled her closer, intertwining their warm bodies. Their lips met again, and Betsy moved slowly to a stand, taking his hand. 

At the door to his room, Betsy smiled shyly with a light blush tickling her flesh. Warren opened his door, and they stepped in, staring at each other through the dim light. His room was plain and empty, but the bed was extravagant, with purple satin sheets and a king-sized mattress. 

She slowly reached out to him, beginning to unbutton his shirt and reaching her hands against his bare flesh, massaging and touching it, moving like a snake across his chest to his back. Warren froze immediately, pushing her away as he stepped back. "Please, don't." 

Betsy stopped abruptly, looking at him with gentle eyes. "Warren, what is it? Did I do something to hurt you?" 

He stared at her tearfully, shaking when he shouldn't be, but nobody had ever seen him as he truly was in his most vulnerable form. And what if she touched his back and felt what was there? She'd think him ugly, a monster. He couldn't bare that, not from her. 

"It isn't you," Warren finally whispered, holding the shirt close to his body. Betsy sat down on the bed, and he looked to where she had left a spot, for him. Could he tell her? Could he trust her? Could he love her? "It's me. I haven't . . . nobody has," Warren paused for breath, shaking his head, "seen me, what I am, seen the ugliness." 

"What could possibly be ugly about you?" Betsy asked quietly, gently. "I have seen your soul, I have seen the beauty that is there. You think you're a horror? I have seen the blackest of souls in my life, and you do not come close. We all have scars, Warren, but they can't be hidden forever." 

"My body is twisted." 

"Your body is beautiful, like your mind, like your soul." Betsy closed her eyes, remembering when she had hated herself like he did, hated her new body because it wasn't the one she was comfortable with, because it was so strange and alien to her. "I have never seen a more beautiful man." 

He didn't believe her, not yet, but he knew she spoke what she thought to be the truth. Did she see him in a way he couldn't view himself? "And I have never seen a more beautiful woman." Warren pulled the shirt off slowly with shaking hands. He would show her this, and hope she did not hate him for it. "I want to show you something." 

"Okay," Betsy murmured as he took her hand in his and placed it on his back, below the shoulder blade. She gasped quietly as she saw the prominent ridge of scar tissue. "I never thought . . . I didn't know. I'm sorry." 

"I haven't shown anybody them," Warren confessed, looking back at her. "They're the only reminder I have of what, of who I was. I hate them so much, but I can't bring myself to be rid of them. I would lose my past, and I would be lost." 

Betsy's eyes glistened with tears as she gently touched a finger to the right scar. Warren flinched slightly, but made no move to stop her. If he was ever going to let her completely into his self, they needed this moment of pure trust. 

And he knew they had it when she touched his lips gently to his mutilated flesh. It was the most sensual, most calming, most erotic, most loving gesture she could have made. That night, when they made love for the first time, there were no walls keeping them apart, no secrets, only trust and the beginnings of complete and total love of themselves and each other. 

Warren's mindscape shook again, this being the biggest one yet, and the memory began to shatter. He would lose himself first before he let Betsy be taken from him. 

He grabbed hold of the image, using every mental trick he had ever been taught to absorb the impact into him, to save his mind, to save himself, to save Betsy. 

His mind continued to shake, and Warren knew the end had come, the final length of the battle in a war of many more. He began to weave tight shields, his mind screaming at the pain he was inflicting upon himself, but he continued with it, forcing the alien conscience out of his mind. 

If Apocalypse wanted him, he would have to come for Warren himself because Warren would never let him win here. He was too strong for that. He had too much at stake for that. His mind was his and his alone, and Apocalypse would rue the day he ever tried to destroy Warren Worthington the Third.


	8. Chapter 8

"Warren?" The voice above him said soothingly as he blinked once then twice then a third time, letting the bursts of light he saw form into real shapes. In his confusion, he had thought it was Betsy who spoke to him like an angel, but it wasn't. The voice belonged to Candy, who had her hand against his face tenderly. "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible," Warren managed to mumble through the fog the headache created, making it impossible to think without incredible pain. He sat up, almost being knocked back down by the torture every movement caused his body. "Betsy? Where's Betsy?"

Candy's face dimmed for barely a second before she responded, still holding onto his hand. "She's sleeping, Warren, but Hank said she should wake any time. He also says you'd be dead of she hadn't taken the brunt of the attack herself."

Warren let the terrible words sink in. "That was only a small part of it?" He finally asked, thanking God the thousandth time in the last week for having given him Betsy. She had saved his life so many times already, and to do this for him, he loved her more for it. "Will she be okay?"

Candy nodded. "Hank says she was only stunned. Jean took a small part of the hit, and the aspirin seems to work for her headache."

"Good," Warren hummed, massaging one very sore wing with his hand.

"Do you want something for the pain?" Candy asked as Hank entered. Hank raised an inquisitive eyebrow, immediately heading to the medicine cabinet as Warren nodded slowly, closely his azure eyes for a brief second. He looked up to see Candy handing him some pills and a glass of water. "Here."

He swallowed them quickly, hoping the affect was quick and numbing. It wasn't, so the pain would have to last a few minutes more. He twitched his feathered appendage once, testing it, and the movement sent shots of pain through his body. He bit his lip and fought back the scream, settling on a subdued and forced, "God, is my wing okay?"

Hank frowned, scuttling over to examine it. He poked at it with clawed fingers, and Warren closed his eyes to the agony. He had hurt his wings before, but they'd alway healed quickly. Something horrible was wrong, and Warren fought what he feared to be the truth from his mind. "Where does it hurt, my ill-feathered friend?"

Warren moaned as Hank touched his hand to the feathery, white appendage again, running his palms across the bone, tweaking the flesh experimentally. "Everywhere, Hank. It hurts to move it, but even the slightest touch kills."

Beast dropped his hand away at the comment, sparing Warren further injury. "I believe you may have sprained it," Hank murmured, noticing a slight bruise forming on the left one as it twitched uncontrollably. "It's not broken, I can ascertain that much to ease your worries."

Warren nodded mutely, tousling his blond hair with his free hand.

"Warren," Hank started, using a gentle tone and a calm approach. He couldn't risk Warren going off like the unpredictable time bomb he was, so he had to be especially careful in how he said it. "Though I am your doctor, I am more importantly asking you this as your friend. It took us two hours to calm you down enough that your brain could start protecting its self."

Simple words for a simple mind, Warren thought as Hank droned on.

"For the entire time you screamed only four sentences over and over again: ‘Get out of my mind, you can't have me, I won't give myself back to you, and I'll never be yours again.' Betsy continued to repeat these phrases for another hour before she was finally able to stop the telepathic assault. As a friend, I am asking for an explanation."

Warren blinked as he looked wearily at Hank, one his oldest friends. He deserved an answer better than the one he was going to give everybody else. "I don't know what there is to explain. I'm living on borrowed time, Hank. He wants me back, has wanted me back since I left, but I've been able to stop him with little difficulty . . . up until now."

"This has happened before?" Hank inquired, aware of the unusually quiet Candy as she sat with what he could have sworn to be a smile on her pretty face. He shook it off, for Candy must be remembering something that could heighten her spirits so.

"The mental demands? No. That only happened for the first time yesterday." Warren paused, a stabbing pain darting through his shoulder. "But it's been other things, smaller things, crazy things. He's sent me letters by registered mail, for crying out loud!"

Despite the dire circumstances, Hank smiled as the idea of Apocalypse going out of his way to actually write Warren a memo. "And the wings, do you think they have something to do with his recent threats?"

Warren paused pensively before shrugging briefly, the massive wings rising and falling swiftly with the sudden movement. Warren winced again, almost toppling over as his injured wing punished him for his carelessness. "I couldn't tell you. Perhaps he's toying with me, I don't know, but it _could_ have something to do with him.

"I don't know what you're expecting from me here, Hank, he doesn't tell me anything, and even if he did, I'd tell somebody. I have learned to live the life I have been given one day at a time. If I live to see tomorrow, then that's great. If I don't, well, I lose. Hank, if I pay any more attention to this than I have the letters, then he's already won. I want to live, and I will, but that involves me living through anything he might do to stop me. That involves me having to live in spite of it all."

* * *

It was late when they finally returned home to the Soho apartment. Candy had been unusually silent for the entire trip in the car, sitting in the back like a spiteful child. Betsy paid little cognisance to her, instead focussing her efforts on getting Warren to pay attention to the road. She could drive, and Warren wouldn't let her near his precious Ashton Martin, not with her horrible driving record and her lack of an American license.

Elisabeth sighed inwardly, realising the time would come when she would have to . . . apply for American citizenship. Since she was on an extended leave of absence from the team, she had to learn to live in the real world. Warren had convinced her, in a fit of passion when she'd agree to just about anything he asked, to help him rebuild Worthington Enterprises. But to work, she had to be citizen.

"Warren!" Betsy cried out suddenly, grabbing the wheel and turning it slightly. "Pay attention, luv, or we'll all going to end up in traction."

Candy laughed suddenly at the comment, saying nothing but smiling smugly to herself. Warren shook it off, sharing a look with Betsy, before pulling into his parking spot. The car, sleek and expensive, stopped gently. Warren stepped out, waiting for the women to exit, then activated the security system to protect the silver car.

They walked up silently like a funeral march, single lined and slow. Warren unlocked the apartment, stepping into the darkened space. "Is anybody hungry? I can make something."

"I think I'll go to bed," Candy said, whisking herself away to the spare bedroom, sparing neither a lingering look or a good night.

Once she was out of view, Betsy immediately established their mental link. * _So, Hank says it's really her?_ * She couldn't keep the sense of disappointment out of her voice. Like Warren, she had been hoping for a con, but as usual, it wasn't that simple.

Warren sighed, buttering a couple slices of bread slowly. * _That what he says, but I don't know what to believe anymore. I believed she was dead, twice, and now she's not. She gives no explanation, and she acts like I killed her mother._ *

* _She sounds like you,_ * Betsy said slowly, watching Warren's face for a reaction, * _when you came back from Apocalypse._ *

Warren dropped a spoonful margarine into the pan, his wings sinking slightly despite his efforts to kept his wounded one stationary. * _Was I really that bad? Is that what you all thought of me when I spoke or when you saw me, the way I'm feeling about Candy right now?_ *

Betsy placed her hands on his shoulders, being careful of the bruised wing as she did. * _When you rejoined the team, I'll admit that you were cold and inclusive and terribly depressed. We all knew enough to stay away from you until you worked it through on your own. Jean suggested psychiatric help, and a lot of the others did, too._ *

* _They did?_ * Warren blinked, surprised they'd even care and angry they'd be discussing this behind his back. It was _his_ life, his alone, and to even think they thought they had any right to try and decide what was right for him, without asking Warren himself, enraged the long buried bitterness he had felt during that horrid time in his life.

Betsy nodded, sitting back down at the table. * _They did, but there were others that understood you had to do it on your own. I knew then you would not likely appreciate their interference, but I wasn't the one who first stood up for your right to privacy._ *

Warren stared intently at the grilled cheese sandwich he was preparing, careful of how he cooked it. He had a tendency to royally muck things up, and cooking was no exception. * _May I ask who it was?_ *

Betsy looked straight at him. * _Actually, luv, it was Gambit, supported by Rogue, Logan, me . . . and Bobby._ *

* _Bobby?_ * Warren repeated, bringing the sandwiches to the table. * _Why him? Why Remy for that matter? Or any of the others? Why would you stick up for me when I hadn't ever done anything for you? I know back then I wasn't the most pleasant person to be around, so why would you risk going against Scott, or Jean, or even the Professor?_ *

Betsy poked at the grilled cheese with a finger. * _Because they weren't suggesting just a doctor to tend to you, they were suggesting a complete mental examination, and I couldn't let them violate you that way because if I did, I'd be giving them permission to do the very same thing to me. Rogue and Remy did it for the same reason. Logan told me later when I asked him why he'd done it, and he said that he knew that deep down you were still the same person, that you just needed to get control of your life again, and then you'd be okay._ *

Warren nodded, for as time passed, he realised he'd been wrong about Logan in his idiot youth. Logan was more a man than he'd ever be, and to find out he stuck up for him even after the way he had treated Wolverine, Warren respected him even more. * _Okay, but why Bobby?_ *

Betsy shrugged. * _I don't know. I never asked him._ * Warren let that lay as it was. If he ever thought he needed to know, he'd ask Bobby himself. "Warren, luv, I don't mean to insult your cooking, but are you aware you forgot the cheese?"

Warren looked at his own sandwiched, realising he'd forgotten the main ingredient of his fabulous feast. "God, I can't take my inability to cook anymore. I'm going to bed." Warren smiled suddenly. "You coming?"

"I'll be there in a second," she promised, and he nodded, walking to their bedroom, pausing for a second to look at Candy's closed door before entering. He turned on the light and closed the blinds. This high up he knew he didn't have to really worry about peeping Toms. Very few apartments could see into his, and he was glad of it. So long as he remained concealed, he wouldn't have to hide in his own home. He could be Warren Worthington, blue-skinned and winged.

He swore softly, wrestling with the shirt he was wearing as it caught on his injured wing. Bending his arms behind his back, he untangled the mess of clothing and finished undressing. In the full length mirror, his nude figure scoffed back at him. There had been a time when he couldn't stand to look in a mirror. All mirrors he owned, he smashed with his fists while hallucinating severely. It had not been the first time he had ever dipped into the darker world of illegal drugs and alcohol, but it had been the only time he ever truly lost control. It had been three weeks after Apocalypse and the first time he actually looked at himself and what he had become. He had not taken it well.

But now, two years later, it wasn't so hard to take anymore. So he'd never be centerfold material again, he could live with that. If one could see past the blue skin, he was still good looking. Betsy swore she saw beyond what he saw himself, that she thought he was beautiful in body as well as mind, but he wasn't sure if he believed her. The blue twisted everything about him, making him appear dark and evil, or had he always been like that? He had asked himself that so many times before, and he never found an answer that satisfied him.

Amidst his thoughts, a strange song began to play, quiet and mysterious like a dream. Unaware he had even closed his eyes, he opened them to the suddenly very dark room. He stayed where he was, feeling warm breath travel across his flesh as goosebumps followed the path.

The music was like a snake, moving slowly and entwining around him. The words were sensual, yet serious, and he was drawn in by the melody. His breath came in synch with the sound, away of Betsy behind him, teasing him while dancing to the euphony.

He turned in her arms, pulling her tightly to him as they kissed passionately, and in the dark, appearances no longer mattered to him. Love had been left in the aftermath of his doubts, and he believed every word she had ever spoke to him.


	9. Chapter 9

Warren struggled to read Betsy's mangled handwriting as he stood in the frozen food aisle of the local supermarket. The list was almost entirely comprised of Kraft Dinner, television dinners, soda pop and various feminine hygiene products. 

Grabbing as many chicken dinners as his frozen hands could hold, he tossed them into the cart and began to walk. He didn't enjoy shopping, but he had exchanged his laundry duties for the sole privilege. It was the lesser of two evils. 

It wasn't the shopping so much that he despised, it was the people. The screaming kids and the amorous women he could ignore, but it was the other people, the people talking about the Friends of Humanity, the FOH themselves, the people talking about mutants as though they were lower than bugs, he hated them. Not realising who he was, he had complete strangers talking to him about the government and the Friends of Humanity. By declining the conversations, they would turn on him. It made the entire experience rather unpleasant. 

Before Warren realised it, his shopping had, for the most part, been completed. Only one more section to tackle, and Warren once again fought with Betsy's horrible handwriting, making a mental note to advise her to print her instructions on the computer next time. 

"Well, I never expected to see you here." 

Warren shot around, mortified to be caught red-handed but appearing calm even in the face of adversity. "Even _I_ have to eat." 

"I don't doubt that, Mr. Worthington," she replied with a weak laugh, "but I meant I didn't expect you to be here, in the women's health aisle. You must really like her. Tell me, is she the one you completely dropped me for?" 

"Charlotte," Warren protested quietly, wondering just how many more of his ex- girlfriends he was going to encounter, and more importantly, could he handle anymore? "I didn't _completely_ drop you." 

"No? You just stopped calling entirely and decided for yourself that the relationship was over. Believe it or not, Warren, that's not how most men dump a woman. Most men will tell her face to face, or even over the phone if they're total cowards, but you, no, you, you take it upon yourself to just assume that by not calling I therefore know it's over! _Damn it_ , Warren, what sort of an insensitive jerk are you?!" 

"Is that a rhetorical question?" He asked, his eyes darting around so he wouldn't have to look at Charlotte. 

"God!" Charlotte exclaimed, throwing her hands up in sheer exasperation. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't punch that pretty face of yours." 

"Scott already broke my nose," Warren offered, realising he was treading on dangerous ground, but he couldn't stop himself. It was coming too easily to him when he hadn't been able to banter successfully in years. "And my face is already blue on its best day." 

This calmed Charlotte down slightly, so she no longer looked as though she wanted him dead, only mortally wounded. "I do not know how you can joke about this. You really hurt me, Warren." 

Warren nodded slowly, clutching onto the list until it crumpled between his fingers. "I know, and had I realised what an asshole I was being, I wouldn't have done it. It is completely my fault, and I understand that." 

"No," she said, shaking her head as she said it, "we still would have broken up. We just weren't meant to be, Warren, maybe the right people at the wrong time, but it wouldn't have worked." Charlotte paused. "I'm still angry at you, though." 

"Isn't everybody?" Warren asked ruefully. 

Charlotte's face softened as she looked upon him with pity. "Things are that bad?" 

"Bad? You've been one of the high points of the past few days, if you can believe it." Warren forgot where he was for a moment, and now was merely a time for talking to a friend, a friend he had hurt terribly in his stupidity. "Do you remember Candy Southern?" 

Charlotte nodded. "She died, didn't she, before I met you?" 

"Well, she's come back to life again," Warren muttered, still in a state of disbelief. "Char, have you had any reports about somebody maybe missing a . . . body or having found a body or having seen a naked woman just appear out of nothing or how about grave robberies?" 

"I don't know offhand, but I could check it out. If you stop by my office tomorrow, I should be able to help you," Charlotte replied with a shrug. 

"Char, thanks," Warren said quietly, realising he desperately needed to change the subject. "How's Timmy?" 

Charlotte smiled at the mention of her son. "He's doing great. The doctor's say he's improving with the physical therapy, and he doesn't need the crutches to walk short distances anymore. He still has those dreams of being able to run again, and for the first time in a long time, I'm starting to think that, too." Charlotte smiled sadly, bitter memories of her husband's death and Timmy's injury rushing back to her. "I could live with what you did to me, Warren, but when I wasn't able to explain to my son why you suddenly disappeared, that's what hurt me the most." 

"If it means anything at all, I'm sorry about being such an insensitive clod, about just throwing you out of my life without an explanation. You deserved one, and I was too much of a jerk to realise that. I'd like us to be friends, if you can forgive me for being an idiot." 

Charlotte looked at his outstretched hand and took it. "And, against my better judgement, I'd like that, too." Charlotte looked at the list in his hand with a amusement. "Do you need some help with that? You were looking rather . . . confused when I first saw you." 

Warren laughed, handing her the sheet of paper. "I can't read her handwriting. I sometimes think she should have been a doctor." 

Charlotte scanned the paper and then grabbed a box off the shelves, handing it to him. "This, Warren, proves why God created women; men couldn't live without us. Have a nice day, Mr. Worthington, I have to get to work." 

"Goodbye, Charlotte," Warren said as she walked away, feeling horrible about how badly he treated her. He had cared for her, perhaps even loved her, but it could never have moved beyond the friendship level, and it still didn't excuse him from what he had done. He had treated her like garbage, and he would never forgive himself for that. 

* * * 

Warren slipped into the apartment quietly, arms full of grocery bags wich were carefully balanced. The doorman had offered to help him, but he had declined, much to his present dismay. But luck was in his favour, and he made it to the kitchen with little difficulty. Betsy sat at the table, doing the crossword. 

"The god of erotic love?" Betsy demanded of him without even looking up, waving her pen for a quick answer. She knew the answer, she always did because of remnants of a long-dead precognitive power, but she enjoyed testing his knowledge and wasting her time on what she called ‘simple activities.' 

"Warren." 

"I won't disagree, but the second letter is an ‘R.'" 

Warren smiled, thanking God the eggs had made the trip back home without mishap. "Eros." Warren frowned slightly at the state of the crushed bag of rippled chips then quickly hid them away. "How has your day been, hon?" 

"Candy squirted mustard all over my white blouse," Betsy muttered, staring at the newspaper with dedicated eyes. "An accident, she claims, but I swear to God she meant to do it. I said that to her, and she stomped out of here, stealing my keys, so I couldn't leave without getting back in. I suppose I could have just managed to merge in, but you know how I hate going through the shadows." 

Warren shivered at the mention of her shadow-merging powers. Betsy had enjoyed the new aspect of her powers for weeks after she discovered she could do it, but one night of horror was enough to convince her it might not be wise to use them too often. 

It had been a horrible night. The power had gone off, and it had been pouring rain, with lightning and thunder shaking the city. That was the night the shadows had tried to take her back. 

Never before had the shadows ever controlled her, but that night they had as her mind was ravaged with a severe fever, and Warren had narrowly escaped being killed by her many times. The experience had been a nightmare, and had Warren not been able to hunt her down and hold her in his protective arms until morning when the light came back, she would have become one with the shadows for all time. Betsy had not used her bizarre power since. 

"That was a bad night, wasn't it?" Betsy asked rhetorically, sighing deeply as his mind unconsciously projected what he felt onto her. "I'm only glad you were there to stop me from becoming whatever it was they wanted me to be." 

Warren bent down and kissed the top of her head. "So am I." Warren returned to putting the food away. "So she just left? Did she saw where she was going, or when she'd be back?" 

"No," Betsy replied, scratching in a word with a feverish hand. "How was shopping? I see you survived, anyhow." 

"Barely," Warren joked, handing her one of the bags. Betsy shook her head in bemusement. "Oh, and I did run into Charlotte Jones. We had a nice talk." 

"Nice talk?" Betsy's voice oozed sarcasm when she spoke it. "Last I heard, she was still out for your head." She frowned deeply creasing the skin around her red lips. "Though, I must admit, I don't enjoy being the other woman." 

"That relationship was over before ours started, though not officially," Warren added, pausing in the middle of the kitchen with a stalk of celery in his hands. "She talked to me, and she listened in return; that was a first. It was actually a pleasant conversation after we argued for awhile." 

"Good," Betsy hummed, chewing the end of her pen. "Four letter word for nuisance?" 

"Twit," Warren replied. The phone began to ring, and Warren, being the nearest, picked it up in his blue hands. "Hello." 

"Hello," the male caller replied. "I'm assuming this is Warren I'm speaking to." 

"Then you assume right," Warren quipped, dread building in his stomach as he deduced who the man must be. He had never met him, nor had they ever really conversed on the phone, but the British accent was a dead giveaway. "Do you want to talk to Betsy?" 

Betsy raised her head, looking at Warren curiously. The look on his face was enough for her to wonder who he was being forced to talk to but the mention of her name had sealed her need to know. She mouthed a ‘who?' Warren replied a mute, ‘your brother.' Betsy smiled, leaving the two men to talk. Perhaps she should have warned him Brian was planning on calling, but it was too late now. 

"Actually, I was hoping to speak to you," Brian said, oblivious to the silent conversation going on between the lovers. "Betsy has told me you're planning on restarting Worthington Enterprises." 

"I'm trying," Warren answered, glaring at Betsy, "but I'm having trouble finding people to back me. I have several of my father's friends pledging their help, but their numbers are few. I have enough money of my own that it should be up within the next few months." 

"Then I have a proposition for you." 

Curiouser and Curiouser, Warren thought to himself. "Go on, I'm listening." 

"Betsy must have told by now I've lost my powers, and I'm doing what you are, trying to rebuild my life. What I'm asking is simply that Worthington Enterprises and Braddock Enterprises merge. You get the support of European Market, and I get the American Market. I remain in control of my company; you keep yours, and Betsy stays the connection between the two. The only major change would be the name." 

Warren gawked at the phone, for this was the last thing he ever imagined happening. " _Why?_ " Was all Warren could manage. "Why would you want to do that when I'm so obviously a mutant, which is the very same reason this is ten times harder than it should be?" 

Brian sighed loudly enough for even Warren to hear over the phone. "Recently I have been informed that one of my former associates had been skimming profits. The man responsible has completely disappeared, and I've accepted there is little chance I'm ever going to see that money again. Financially, my company's in a recovery period, and I need the new market if the company's going to survive. We focus on scientific research, and having a major Enterprise supporting our research as well as financing it, would be a major step. You would get a share of any profits made, of course, as well as recognition as being the top Chairman of the company. I am not out for money, Worthington, only to do what I enjoy. You would own it, but so long as you allow me my control, I have no problem with it." 

"Fair enough," Warren agreed, his mind swimming with what this merger could do for him. "Give me time to think about this, and I'll get back to you. I'll say this now, there is a good chance I'm going to go with this." 

"Well, Betsy knows where to find me when you've reached your decision. Tell Betsy I'll call her tomorrow, and that I send my love." 

"I'll do that." Warren wished him well and hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. Betsy laughed gently at him, and he smiled. "You could have warned me he was going to call, Betts. Not to insult your brother, but he terrifies me." 

"His bark is worse than his bite. He wants everybody to think he's so tough and macho, but if the truth be known, he was always the cowardly twin. I'm the one you should be afraid of." Betsy grinned wickedly, and Warren laughed, happy to be here, with her, and for the first time since was young, he was happy to be . . . alive. 

* * * 

Candy shivered slightly, wrapping the leather jacket tighter around her body. She had needed desperately to get out of that apartment, but now that she had, the truth scoffed back at her, and she couldn't help but feel terrified at what she was being asked to do. 

She also realised she had no choice. It had been taken away from her, and now she lived only to serve so that one day, she might live again. She knew she should be dead, that she had died and should be that way still, but she found herself clinging to life. Had she been stronger, she would have been able to turn down the offer, but she couldn't, not when he offered her life. Her only regret was that in exchange for that she might avoid the ultimate end, she had to tear Warren down. 

She hadn't though she'd be capable of hurting him so she could live, but anger does strange things to an already wounded mind. He, like her, should be dead, and he, like her, was given an offer he couldn't refuse. It was only fair that he suffer like she had, like she was hurting seeing him with _her_. 

Candy cast one last look out onto New York City at its busiest and smiled, for though she had been to hell and back, that hadn't changed.


	10. Chapter 10

"That's a good movie," Warren muttered as the credits began to roll. The movie had been a nice change of pace, allowing him to simply relax and enjoy having Betsy near him. Candy had returned in the middle of it, having been gone twelve hours without an explanation, and scowled at them, or so Betsy swore. Warren hadn't seen anything of the sort. 

"I seem to recall you got a bit uncomfortable at a certain part of the film," Betsy replied, sitting between his legs, leaning against his muscular chest. She loved the feel of his body rising and falling smoothly with every breath. It soothed her in way she hadn't thought something so meagre would. 

"I was sympathising with the poor boy. In the entire movie, that's the one scene that disturbs me. It's as though it wrecked the fun time they were having, totally killed it. It just saddens me." Warren shrugged, playing with a strand of her hair between his fingers. 

"I have a complaint or two about the ending of it, but then Stephen King isn't known for his brilliant endings. It was charming film. I'm glad to have seen it." 

"I still can't believe you haven't seen ‘Stand By Me' before. I've seen it at least four times," Warren said, moving his wings into a more comfortable position. The blood had ceased running through them, and they were now numb with pins and needles. It was a strange, and unpleasant, sensation. 

"In 1986, I was a famous model and hadn't the time for such things. I knew I'd see eventually. I was in no great rush." 

"For me it wasn't just a movie; it was me longing for something I didn't have. All I wanted was to have friends like that, but instead I had none, save for Cameron Hodge, and befriending him was _one_ of the biggest mistakes of my life." 

Betsy looked back at him, rubbing his arms with her hands gently. "Come now, you must have had others. I though you were mister popularity." 

Warren frowned deeply. He hated thinking about his childhood, but he knew it would help if he just talked about the horrible time, but it had scarred him enough. "They used to call me the ‘Angel' in grammar school, you know, because I was such a goody-two-shoes. They all hated me for that reason alone, and as we grew older, I only gave them more reasons. I tackled school with little difficulty; I was on a slew of sports teams; and I, sort of . . ." Warren trailed off, years of scorn and embarrassment coming back to him. 

"Sort of what, Warren," Betsy prodded gently. 

"Matured sooner, I guess. Just because my wings didn't grow in until I was thirteen that doesn't mean the rest of me didn't enjoy getting a head start." Warren sighed deeply. "Needless to say, I was also quite popular with the girls. In truth, by the time I was thirteen, the only people I paid any attention to were girls, so that's where the whole _Warren Worthington, playboy_ comes from. All I wanted were friends." 

Betsy frowned slightly, for her experiences had been disturbingly similar. "My best friend was Brian, so you must imagine what the other girls thought of that. I've had friends, but not many I'd tell my closest secrets, maybe not any at all." Betsy paused, pulling his arms her stomach. "Save for you." 

Warren smiled, hugging her tightly. "Lovers, best friends, soulmates what more could we ask for in this life we lead?" 

Betsy remained strangely quiet, for she had been asking herself that very question for a while now, thinking about what more she wanted from their relationship and wondering if he wanted the same thing she did. 

* * * 

He looked around slowly, absorbing ever detail about the strange environment as he had been taught to do. He was a predator; he needed to know and see more than others did. It was who he was, and he couldn't change that. 

He crept through the murky swamp, ignoring the strange creatures he felt brush against his legs. He had to be strong; he had to show no fear, or he would be weak, and only the strong survived. It was who he was, and he couldn't change that. 

"Are you not afraid?" The dark, sadistic voice asked, and he looked around, trying to see who it was that spoke to him. He could see no one, so he continued walking, intrepid and adjudicated. It was who he was, and he couldn't change that. 

"You should be afraid," another voice added, her soft tone strangely familiar. He ignored that second comment, walking on as though nothing had been uttered. He showed no fear nor would he ever be that weak. It was who he was, and he couldn't change that. 

"Show no fear," the third voice advised, her strong British sound giving him more strength. He trudged on through the wild weeds, the difficult mud and the black water. He couldn't give up. It was who he was, and he couldn't change that. 

A hand grabbed him, yanking him into the darkness. His mouth opened in a scream, and the black sludge seeped into his every pore, suffocating him, drowning him until he felt his essence being stripped away. 

The hand pulled him out of the abyss, clasping his neck and bringing him up, so he hung suspended above the Oppressor. He tried to scream, but his larynx was being crushed by the metallic fingers. He tried to struggled, but he couldn't, for he had no strength. "Why . . . are . . . you . . . doing . . . this?" 

"Because you belong to me," the voice hissed in response, grasping one feathered wing and ripping it off. He screamed in anguish, thrashing wildly in a last attempt to stop the attack, but the Evil One simply smiled and took hold of the second wing, tearing it from his back. "And you will always belong to me." 

* * * 

Warren did not scream as he woke. His throat was so parched, he could not make a sound. His body covered in sweat and his covers twisted around his legs, he stumbled out of the bed, running to the washroom with a ragged sob. 

Leaning over the white toilet, he vomited into it, shaking violently. He fell back against the wall, bringing his knees to his chest, and he whimpered like a child. His wings curled around his body like a protective veil, promising to protect him from his greatest fear. He clutched at them, urging them to surround him like a blanket. 

"Oh, God, Warren," Betsy murmured as she ran into the washroom, bringing with her a sheet from the bed. She draped it around his slick body, attempting to restore some of his lost warmth with a tight hug. They rocked on the floor in silence for an hour before Warren finally uttered anything intelligible. 

"He's invaded my mind," Warren mumbled in shock, shaking his head as he muttered it. "And I can't get him out. He'll continue until he has torn me down, and I return to him. Betsy, I can't go back," he whispered tearfully, clinging onto her arm as though it were a lifeline. 

"I'm not going to let you go back," Betsy promised, burying her face in him flesh as she placed a hand to his face. "We're going to make it through this together, Warren. I'm not going to let him ever get to you again. Your life is mine; my life is yours. Nothing bad can happen so long at that remains true." 

* * * 

Warren ran his hand gently down her back, tracing the length of her spine with his fingers tips. He moved his finger back up her body and between her shoulder blades, which were quite prominent on her toned back. The skin was smooth to his touch and so warm that it calmed him to only feel her there. 

His actions did not wake her, and she continued to mumble wistful, quiet sounds into the morning sun. Betsy's hair lay across his arm, beautiful and surreal in it's purple colour. He knew, with definitive proof her secrets had given away, that she was indeed naturally purple. It was an odd contrast against his blue skin. 

He looked at the clock, surprised to see the late time. It was nearly eleven, and he had promised Charlotte he'd be down at the station in the morning. Groaning under his breath, he stumbled out of the bed. Tired and sore, he managed to shave, brush his teeth and style his blond hair with little difficulty. Settling on black dress pants, a white silk shirt, and a blue tie, he dressed with half-closed eyes. 

Betsy stirred under the covers, pulling them closer to her. She opened one eye and glanced at Warren. "Going somewhere?" 

"The police station," Warren replied quietly, tying his leather shoes. "This is my thin- veiled attempt to find out how, or why, Candy is suddenly resurrected. Charlotte said she'd look through the reports. I should be back by lunch time. I'll cook." Betsy nodded, closing her eyes again. Warren smiled, kissing her on the forehead before he left the room and the apartment. 

* * * 

"Sorry I'm late," Detective Jones muttered with a bagel in one hand and her bag in the other. "Timmy came down with a cold, and since my mother-in-law doesn't drive, I had to rush around trying to find a drugstore before my shift." 

"If it had to do with the great boy of yours, consider yourself excused," her supervisor, Antoinette Weston, replied with smile. She knew Charlotte well enough to know she wouldn't have been late unless the situation was of the utmost importance. "There's a man in your office, claiming you were expecting him." 

"Warren?" Charlotte muttered with a groan. "The guy's never been on time in his life, and he choses today to start. I swear to God, I'll never understand him. How long has he been waiting, Toni?" 

Toni smiled. "Let me guess, he's an ex-boyfriend?" 

"Something like that, yes," Charlotte snorted, sticking the bagel under he arm as she got herself a cup of coffee. 

"So, is he single?" Toni asked with a coy grin. "God knows it's been awhile since a man that gorgeous has even come into my life, no matter how brief the appearance." 

"Actually, no, he's not," Charlotte muttered, jamming the bagel in her mouth as she added sugar to her hot drink. "And trust me, you wouldn't want to deal with him. He's hard to get along with." 

"Aren't they all?" Toni sighed, catching a glimpse of the handsome man through the partially opened blinds. "He's been waiting for about half an hour, quite impatiently I might add. He shifts in the chair like it's too uncomfortable to sit with his back against it, and I did catch him rearranging the pens in your pen-holder." 

"Did I also mention he's neurotic?" Charlotte shuttled off into her office, forcing the slightly ajar door open with her foot. "Sorry I'm late. Timmy's sick." 

A look of concern passed across Warren's face. "Is he okay?" 

Charlotte nodded, noticing how orderly her pens were as she sat down. "It's just a cold. He's miserable from the lack of sleep, but he'll be okay." Warren nodded briefly, leaning forward as he crossed his hands several times like a drug user who hadn't gotten his fix. "Warren, are you okay?" 

Warren looked up, appearing surprised she was talking to him. "I don't know how you can work in here. It's like a closet, with no windows and no space. It's suffocating." 

"You get used to it. Listen, is there anything you want to talk about? You seem a tad bit on edge." Charlotte looked down at Warren hands, which he promptly placed at his side. "Did something happen?" 

Warren shook his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary." 

"Which for you can be just about anything. I can get the hint." Charlotte began to search through a pile of papers before bringing out a thin file folder. "The night you said this happened on, it was pretty slow. A couple domestic disputes, ten mutant _sightings,_ " both Warren and Charlotte shared a exasperated sigh, "one suspected breaking and entering, which turned out to only be the man's cat accidentally knocking over a vase, and one call about a naked woman. That one might be the one that interests you." 

Warren looked at file she handed him, quickly reading the details of the report. "It says here she disappeared when he went to call the police. The physical description is a match to Candy, but it still doesn't explain anything. Does he know how she got there?" 

"He claims he saw a bright light, which the woman stepped through onto his lawn. He said she was covered in . . . er . . . _goo_ and looked, and these are his words and not mine, like she'd just been born. She stood on his lawn a couple minutes then was gone." 

Warren sighed deeply, closing the folder. "It's a start, I guess." 

"I thought you'd be overjoyed she was back. After all you went through trying to save her, and to finally have her back, you should be happier." 

"I know I should. I was willing to sacrifice everything I had when Cameron took her, but there's something so wrong here, so wrong with her, I can't bring myself to feel anything." Warren unconsciously clutched at the sides of the chair, scratching the wood with his finger nails. "And that's what scares the hell out of me." 

Charlotte shook her head as she frowned, sipping the hot coffee carefully. "I don't understand how you live through these things, Warren. If it was me, I'm not sure I could cope with all this crap." 

"You learn to cope with the crap, Char, and that's where your wrong. If this was you, you'd be taking it better than I am because you're a better person than I." 

"No better, no worse, Warren," Charlotte replied, looking at him with compassion she hadn't felt since he'd used her emotions as a carpet for his feet to step all over. "We all deal with it in our own way. I have to say, though, you're looking better than you have in a long while. You didn't smile often enough when we were close." 

Warren looked at her, exhaling slightly. "I was depressed when we met, very, very depressed. There wasn't much to smile about, but now there is. I've worked my way through the hardest time in my life, and I'm happy with myself." He stood up, walking to her desk and standing over her. He took her hand in his, and he lifted the back of his shirt slightly, letting her feel the softness that lay beneath. 

"Your wings, they're real?" Charlotte asked in surprise, feeling the warm down at the end of her fingertips. "When did this happen?" 

"A couple weeks ago," Warren replied with a warm smile. "I don't know why, nor do I really want the truth. For now, I'm happy just accepting something has been given back to me that had been stolen." 

Despite the fact she still harboured some hard feelings towards him, she found his happiness contagious, and soon they were joking and laughing like they were old friends, when in truth, that's exactly what they were.


	11. Chapter 11

Warren stopped at the tombstone and stared at the name engraved in the grey stone. Candace Southern, dead over two years ago. It said as much on the rock, so why wasn't it true? The grave seemed unscathed, as if her body was still there, but Candy was walking, breathing, living, in a way she shouldn't be. 

"Come to mourn my death, lover?" 

Warren jumped as the intrusion, losing his footing on the grassy hill and sliding a few metres downward. He swore loudly as his bruised wing hit a tombstone, tearing a hole in his leather jacket. 

"Or did you just come here to find me?" Candy smiled, standing over him with her hands on her hips. "You went to the police station. Why?" 

He ignored her accusing tone and stood up, brushing the wet grass off his jeans with a forceful hand. "I was visiting a friend." 

"Charlotte Jones, Detective Charlotte Jones of the NYPD, widow and mother to a charming little boy named Timmy," Candy recited out loud then smiled, baring venomous teeth. "You wanted to find out about me, didn't you, darling?" 

"You haven't bothered to give me any answers," Warren muttered, uncomfortable to be around her. He was beginning to understand Betsy's behaviour towards her. "I had to do _something_ to figure this out." 

"You want the truth, don't you, Angel baby?" Candy laughed lightly, circling him as he watched her like a hawk. "Did you ever think about the fact the truth might be too hard to take? Do you really want to know what I hide?" 

"Yes, tell me," Warren said, aware of the tension mounting, the offensive pose she had taken against him while he was forced into defense, but could he really protect himself? "Candy, I want the truth from you." 

Candy's face darkened. "No, you don't, you don't want to know, you never do. You trust and place your faith in the wrong people, Warren. Instead of accepting your foolish naivety, you continue on blindly, ignoring everything." 

"I see more than you will every know," Warren said ominously. "I'm not a child. I do not follow anything blindly like a lamb to the slaughter. The fact you could even think that proves you know nothing about me at all." 

Candy stood facing him then kissed him fiercely, forcing her weight on his light bones. Warren stumbled backwards, forgetting they were on a hill, and Candy grabbed his shirt in her hands to end continue the kiss and pushed when it had ended. Warren completely lost his footing and fell down the hill headfirst then slide on his back until his legs flipped over his head again, somersaulting him. 

Warren frantically grabbed for something to stop his fall, but all his hands clutched at was useless, wet grass. He had lost sight of Candy, but he was less concerned with her than he was of himself. In the midst his frantic thoughts, his mind went blank as his head connected with a tombstone. On the monumental grave was an Angel. 

* * * 

Warren opened his eyes slowly, bringing a weak hand to the side of his face, touching to sea of crimson that bathed the flesh. It was only a cut, not very large but deep, spewing forth his lifeblood as he lay in the wet grass. 

Stumbling, he climbed back up the hill, his balance unsteady and his legs weak, but he made it to the top and looked around. Candy was gone. In truth, there was no sign she had ever been there to begin with. Maybe he had imagined it, maybe she hadn't meant to push him down the hill, maybe it had all been an accident. 

He didn't believe that. He wish he did, but he wasn't _that_ naive. So Betsy had been right about Candy. He could live with that, but the fear in the pit of his stomach continued to grow. There was something too dark here to have been dreamt of by Candy alone. He had been manipulated once himself, and he knew how impossible an offer of life could be to turn down. 

"Damn you!" Warren cried out into the empty cemetery, his arms raised to the heavens. "Damn you, Apocalypse! This wasn't part of the deal, this was not part of the goddam deal. You want me, you come for me yourself. I'm here. Come and get me!" 

Birds fluttered from their perches at the screams, scattering into the horizon, and Warren swore loudly, waving his fist about madly. "I dare you, _my lord_ , come and get me if you dare! Let's just see who is fit for survival! Let us just see if I am that Angel of Death you want me to be! I'm here, and I'm waiting, and you'll never have me! You will never have me again!" 

* * * 

Candy stood in the cool night, staring bleakly into the starless sky. It looked so bland, so empty, so like she felt. She should have killed him at the cemetery. That would have been the biggest act of mercy she ever committed. It would have saved his life. 

"You will push your pettiness aside, child." 

Candy gave no reaction to his intrusion. She simply continued to stare out into the great bleakness before her. "I will do what I want and when I want it. That was the deal, wasn't it? I do things the way I want them done, so long as I still do what you wish." 

"You have made an idiot move, child," he replied coldly, his mechanical voice unable to shake her. "Your element of surprise has been eliminated. He knows now that you seek to do him harm." 

"It was better than stabbing him in the back," Candy muttered dryly. 

He grabbed her shoulder, yanking her so that she faced him. She showed no emotion. "It matters not, for I have made sure he will not remember your stupidity. I warn you not to double cross me, child. It brings only trouble." 

Candy smiled wickedly. "Very well, Apocalypse. I am well aware my life is in your hands. I will do what you want." Candy turned to walk away before returning to her former stance. "One question, and I do expect an answer, if his body is indeed dying as you say it is, doesn't he know this?" 

"He knows, but he is stubborn and denies it." Apocalypse frowned. "He has not told his precious lover the truth. Perhaps, if she knew, that would be enough to break her, and ultimately him. Do you understand what I am saying?" 

Candy nodded, her dark curls mimicking her movements. "I can do that, but I ask you to stop the mental attacks. They are not working, and they're making your precious plan obvious. You want surprise, _my lord_ , start acting like it." 

Apocalypse roared in sudden rage, slapping her, for she was only human when all was said and done. "You will not speak to me like that, _human!_ The mental attacks have been ceased, young Rhythm has not proven as successful as I had hoped she'd be. Now, you must do what I have told you to do." 

"I will do it, don't worry about that, but I need time." 

"No," Apocalypse silenced her. "You will do it tonight, and if it is not done by then, you will suffer a hell so unlike the one you have known already, you will pray you had never gone against my word." 

* * 

Rhythm, that is what her dark lord called her. She liked the name, for it described what she did so well. She disrupted the rhythm of the brain, altering memories and thoughts to her pleasure. She enjoyed her power. She was her power. 

"Can you spare some change?" Rhythm asked sincerely, aware her thin frame and sickly features made her appear ill and impoverished. She knew he would take pity on her. Any less on his account would have made him something less than a hero. 

Warren dug into his pocket at the inquiry, ready to give her hundreds. He looked up in time to see her coming at him, placing her palm flat against his face. He stumbled back, aware of the pounding rhythm in his brain, and slumped against the brick wall as his memories were changed to make him see only what _his lord_ wanted him to see. 

* * * 

Warren stumbled into the apartment with his hand to his head. His mind felt as if a dense fog had ascended upon it. The strangest thing, and the thing which bothered him most of all, was the fact he could not remember where he had been for the past ten hours. His mind was a blank. 

"Where have you been?" Betsy demanded of him the moment she caught his figure in the doorway. She threw down the book she had been reading, letting it slide and splay onto the plush carpet. "Just where the hell have you bloody well been?" 

Warren shooed her away. He was not in the mood to be interrogated, but the motion only made Betsy more irate. She moved to grab his arm, but he avoided the gesture. Her eyes flared, and she cut him off before he could travel any further. 

"Warren, you cannot simply emerge without an explanation after you've been missing for sixteen hours!" 

"Missing? I wasn't missing," Warren muttered, wishing for some aspirin the ease the dull ache in his head. "I was . . . out, talking to Charlotte. I told you that. You know where I was. I wasn't missing." 

"Hello?" Betsy said, waving her hand in front of his face. "You said you'd be home by lunch time. I hate to tell you this, Warren, but it's two in the morning. Can you tell me, then, what you have been doing for the past ten hours?" 

Warren blinked painstakingly, as if it hurt to think about the past. He remembered leaving the Police Station, he remembered going to the cemetery, but beyond that, there was nothing. "I can't . . . remember." 

Betsy gasped in a short breath of air, grabbing his arm as to make him sit. She saw the blank look in his eyes, the slowness of his responses, the confusion imbedded in every facial crevice. Lightly, her telepathic butterfly touched his temple, skimming for thoughts that would give away the truth, but she found only emptiness. 

But then it flashed, a memory before his eyes, and hers, catching them both off guard. Betsy stumbled back, losing her already awkward footing where she crouched. Warren flinched as another memory hit his mind. Flesh, hot flesh and breath, on him. Kisses and caresses, touch as hot and as sensual as a lover's would be, stroking his wings, his body, everything. And there was a woman, slender and gorgeous, with pale skin and youthful eyes. It wasn't Betsy. 

"You thought you could lie to me?!" Betsy screamed as the images became clearer and clearer. God, she had never expected this from him. She trusted him. How dare he betray her like this! 

"I didn't," Warren protested, shaking his head. "I didn't. You've got to believe me, Betts. These memories aren't mine! I wouldn't do that to you. I love you!" 

"If you loved me, you wouldn't have done it, Warren," Betsy snapped, slapping him away as he moved closer. "It was a nice try, claiming you couldn't remember, very nice and I almost fell for it, but how dare you think you could hide it forever?! Who was she, Warren? Who was the little wench?" 

"I don't know!" Warren cried, trying so hard to remember the truth. He knew this couldn't have happened. He promised Betsy he never would. He loved her so much it hurt. He couldn't have done this. "I swear, I didn't sleep with her." 

Betsy felt her will falter for a moment, and she almost believed him, but the memories were there again on her mind, feelings, his feelings, overtaking her. Sights of passion and ecstasy, obviously hidden away by him. She knew what was real. She knew the illusion was his. 

"Get out," Betsy muttered darkly, laying her hand on the katana blade that sat on the coffee table, polished and deadly. "Get out of this house right now before I do something we'll both regret." 

Warren grabbed his coat and his wallet without another word, sparing one last look over his shoulder, he left, just as she asked him to do, for though he knew none of this had happened, there was only one way he could prove it, an avenue he wasn't willing to take. To let her into his mind, would hurt her even more.


	12. Chapter 12

"Warren, buddy, come on," Bobby muttered, pulling the drunken man to his feet. Warren swatted him away, muttering indecipherable curses. Remy frowned deeply, aiding in Bobby's task. Warren glared at the Cajun until he removed his hand. "Warren, you're drunk." 

"How d'you find me?" He slurred, laying out several hundred dollar bills on the counter for the barkeep. His tab was barely twenty, but he figured the guy needed it for college or for his family or something else Warren couldn't fathom at the moment. The reason was beyond Warren right now, but he knew the boy needed the money more than he did. 

"Dat, mon ami, would be me," Remy muttered, dragging Warren across the floor with Bobby holding onto his other arm. "And it was a lucky break, _Ange._ I found ya here while trying to drown de memories of Roguie away." 

"You're gonna lose her," Warren muttered, tears welling in his ice blue eyes. "You gonna lose her because you're stupid, Gumbo. You're gonna make a mistake that's gonna kill your love, and she's gonna say she doesn't want nothing to do with you!" 

Remy tried to ignore the intoxicated man's comments, but everybody knew Warren, though barely coherent, was right. "You having trouble with Psylocke, mon ami?" 

"I ain't your mon ami," Warren shot back as the room spun uncontrollably. He swallowed loudly, fighting the contents of his stomach as they attempted to emerge from the depths within him. "I didn't do it." 

Bobby raised his eyebrow at the whisper, glad Remy had called him when he did. Warren had always been a lousy drunk, but even more so when he was emotionally distraught. Warren didn't drink often, said he didn't care for the horrible hangover binging brought him, but when he did, it was a show to see. 

Remy and Bobby dragged the inebriated blond man into the rest room, immediately filling a sink with cold water and plunging his head in. Warren gasped as the shock hit his system as he was pulled out, swore when he was immersed again and cried out underwater when the cold overtook his numb state. After a few minutes of this, he had calmed down greatly and sat on the cold, ceramic floor, holding back his tears. 

"She didn't even give me a chance to explain," he murmured into his arms as they crossed tightly over his knees. "I told her it wasn't true, that the memories weren't mine, I know they aren't. I told her I wouldn't do that. I keep my word." 

Bobby sat down across from him while Remy took position on the lone, white sink. Bobby looked at him carefully, remembering many a time when he had been the one left to deal with a distraught Warren. Though raised to be proper and respected, emotionally Warren rarely dealt with anything rationally. "You want to talk about it, buddy?" 

"I have memories in my head," Warren started then hiccuped, his eyes watering with misery, "that are not mine. I know they aren't. I didn't sleep with that woman, I know I didn't, but I don't know why I'd remember something I didn't do." 

Bobby winced, and Warren frowned at him. "No, I know didn't sleep with her, though that's not what you're thinking. I'm not like that anymore, Bobby. I'm not the selfish, immature little playboy I used to be. I love Betsy. I want nobody else." 

"I believe you," Bobby replied, and Remy nodded in agreement. Warren wouldn't get this worked up over something that was true. "Do you have any idea why you might be remembering something that never happened?" 

Warren shook his head. "The last thing I remember was going to Candy's grave to check it out, I guess to see if it had been disrupted or dug up, but it was untouched. I don't remember anything after that. I'm not even sure how I got home." 

"Maybe we should take you to Jean," Bobby suggested, but Warren shook his head violently. "Warren, buddy, you can't just do nothing." 

"Can't I?" Warren laughed lightly, an insane, bitter laugh, and Bobby wondered if perhaps Warren was not losing it again. "What difference will it make? It's just as well she threw me out, saves her from being hurt." Warren smiled sadly, pushing his hair out of his eyes with both hands. "It's better you two just leave me alone and let me deal with all of this on my own. It won't be worth it in the end." 

"Warren . . ." 

Warren slapped Bobby's hand away and stared at him. "Go now, and forget you ever knew me! It won't be worth it. Trust me, you do not want to see where I'm going, nobody wants to see it." 

Remy lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply before speaking. "Sounds to me like ya givin' up, _Ange._ Dat don't seem like ya style." 

"No, it sounds like your style, LeBeau," Warren retorted angrily, catching those devilish red-on-black eyes with his own for a brief second before they both turned away from the horrifying sight. 

"Can you excuse de _Ange_ and me, Robert," Remy muttered, exhaling a thin stream of smoke through his pursed lips. Bobby was about to protest, but the look on Warren's face was painfully obvious. He didn't want Bobby there either. 

"Fine, I know when I'm not wanted. I'll buy myself a drink." Bobby frowned before stomping out the rest room to the bar, where the barkeep immediately demanded ID. 

Remy kneeled down before Warren, his jeans torn at the knee and his trench coat splaying across the ground. "Jus' what exactly was dat supposed to mean, _Ange?_ " Warren looked away from him, silently protesting his question. Remy snapped his fingers. "Jus' what exactly were ya implyin'?" 

"I saw you," Warren whispered darkly. "In the tunnels, during the Massacre. You were there, I'm sure of it. You were thinner and weaker, but it was you." Warren sighed deeply, tapping his thigh with an anxious finger. 

Remy remained silent, and that was answer enough for Warren. He looked to the Cajun, seeing the guilty look on his face, the sadness in those evil eyes. "So why haven't ya said anyt'ing, _Ange?_ Cyke would love any excuse to toss me off de team, and I know you ain't got any great love for me." 

"I remember you helping me, trying to stop the bleeding with your coat after Harpoon and the others left me to die, before Thor came along and took me down from the wall." Warren closed his eyes, the memories of that horrid night rushing back to him. "I hate you because you were there, but I understand you probably saved my life or tried at any rate. It's not your fault I died anyway. I will never speak of this again, Remy." 

"I only joined Sinister ‘cause he offered me de truth about my past, but I didn' do anyt'ing dat he said. I saved who I could, but dey kept finding dem anyway, slaughterin' de Morlocks no matter what I did. I left after dat." 

"Like Apocalypse did for me," Warren mumbled, distraught and exhausted. His head was throbbing, whether it was because of the alcohol or the memories, he did not know. It only hurt to think, and that pain was only slightly less than the pain he felt in his heart. "I want to go home, I want to go to Betsy." 

* * * 

Candy stood in the darkened apartment, smiling wickedly over Betsy as she dreamt fitful dreams, muttering urgent noises as she slept. Candy bent near to her face, near enough that the slightest breath would wake the slumbering ninja. "Wakey, wakey, mind witch." 

Betsy jerked out of her unconscious state, immediately taking a defensive position in the black apartment. Sleep made her clumsy and lumbering, but she could still defend herself. "What are you doing here?" 

"I'm here to offer support in your dire time of need," Candy responded sweetly, slashing at Betsy face with a small, metal needle. Betsy moved to block, but Candy had already drawn a thin bead of blood. "So tell me, Elisabeth, are you feeling okay?" 

Betsy stepped away from Candy, hounding herself for being so slow in her response. "What do you want?" Betsy demanded, her usually eloquent voice slurred. She tripped as she stumbled away backwards, hitting the floor with a thud. Something was wrong, she realised, as she felt herself losing control. It was like she had been drugged. God, Candy had drugged her. "I knew . . . you were . . . here to . . . hurt him." 

"Having trouble speaking, Elisabeth?" Candy taunted with a sinister smile. "Feeling tired and weak? And surprise, surprise, nimbo, your powers don't work either. It was all part of his plan. Warren will bring you down with him in the fall." 

"Go . . . to . . . hell," Betsy cursed weakly, falling flat on the carpet. 

"He never told you, did he?" Candy asked with a flitting laugh. "The bastard never told you what he really was, what he is. He and I, we live for the same reason, or rather, we exist in this cold, cold world. We are not alive." 

Betsy gasped as the numbness spread, her unspoken words unable to pass the barrier of her lips. Her powers were gone, the shadows refused her cries, and her body ignored her demands as she silently writhed against the emptiness. 

"He knows, sweet Elisabeth," Candy murmured, stroking her cheek, smearing the blood into tribal-like markings, matching the crimson tattoo that adorned her face. "And he never told you he's a reanimate." 

Betsy shook her head, denying the accusations. 

"Dead flesh forced to live through the process of reanimation. He's a corpse, Elisabeth, a dying sack of rotted flesh. Without Apocalypse, he can't live, so his body's slowly dying. He doesn't heal as quickly as he used to, he's slowed down, ready to die." 

"Not . . . true," Betsy forced out through several laboured gasps. She would fight until her dying breath if she had to. Candy could not take away her power to speak, to fight, to believe in Warren. God, she believed in him! 

Candy circled the fallen woman, wondering how much longer until the witch was unconscious. She had things to do, people to screw. This night would be her last night as a slave, her last night with Warren. She was going to make it count. 

"He's lied to you from the beginning, Elisabeth," Candy shouted out, grabbing the picture of herself and Warren and tossing it against the wall, so the glass shattered and the memory tore within the frame. 

"He lies to everybody." She threw the framed picture of Betsy and Thomas Lennox, and Betsy winced as she heard it break. Candy took the photo itself and tore it up, letting the pieces flutter down onto Betsy's head. 

"And tonight, I'm going to force him back to his _lord,_ and then I can live! I can live!" Candy took the picture of the Original X-Men and stared at it sadly. "He was so innocent back them. He'd deny it, but he was. That's why I loved him so. Everybody thought he was frivolous and flimsy, but I saw something more there, a real person. Damn him!" 

Candy whipped the frame and photograph into the fireplace, turning on the gas and letting the flames ignite. The paper twisted and writhed as the images burned, and ironically enough, the picture of Angel was the last to burn. 

Candy clutched the portrait of Betsy and Warren, happy in each other's arms. She turned to look at Psylocke, who had finally fallen unconscious. Candy felt oddly remorseful her show had ended, but the bigger play was just beginning. 

Grabbing hold of Betsy's feet, Candy dragged the sleeping woman into the hall, and in her mind spun and twisted the events tonight as she wished them to happen. Warren would regret the day he ever begged Apocalypse to live as he took his final breath. Candy would make him regret, just as she would make him regret he had ever turned her away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to queenB for beta-reading this. Her help was invaluable.
> 
> Please be advised this chapter contains most of the archive warnings listed on this story.

After convincing Bobby and Remy he was fine, Warren slipped into the loft carefully, untying his laces and placing the bouquet of white roses on the front table. He would get her to believe him; he'd let her go into his mind and find the truth he knew was there. Betsy would see he'd never intentionally hurt her like that.

Warren felt slight disappointment at the fact she hadn't waited up for a confrontation. Sure, Betsy had told him to get out, but she had been wrongfully angry at the false memories, and he was positive he could make things right between them again.

He waited where he stood, clearing his throat loudly, hoping he'd disturb her. She was usually so aware of things while she slept, especially when she was upset. Why hadn't she come out to yell at him?

Giving up, he walked quietly into the master bedroom, seeing the bed empty save for a single rose lying on his smooth pillow. Picking up the delicate flower in his hand, Warren smiled gently but immediately dropped the rose as a tiny thorn drew blood from the tip of his thumb. Watching it drip methodically onto the silk sheets, Warren stared as the scarlet fluid stained the fabric next to the dropped flower. He was mesmerised by the eerie sight.

Betsy hated red roses.

A numbing sensation invaded his already weary system, and he stumbled back slightly, dazed and nauseated. He looked to the flower, noticing now a honey-like substance coating the stem, and the same material was on his hand, near the piercing the sharp thorn had made, mixed with his crimson blood.

Warren fell onto the bed as his mind fogged and his body went limp, murmuring into the night, "I didn't even see that coming . . ."

* * *

The music played in the background, a hushed symphony of flutes and a grand piano playing delicate melodies for all in the group to hear. Warren watched as his surroundings whirred by like wind, everything moving at a pace far too quickly for his eyes to catch.

It was so electrifying, so completely disorienting, he wondered for a brief second if this was indeed hell. The people were so false, so like paper dolls that he bet if he blew ever so slightly into the crowd, they would all fall to the ground.

So he blew a gust of wind through gentle lips, and the guests fell like two dimensional pieces of paper into a neat pile. They were all so fake, so utterly unreal, prancing ignorantly through life without a care to themselves or the world. One breath was all it took to completely destroy them.

"Is anything real?" He spoke with a whisper and the room shattered into a thousand shards of glass. So fragile, it was, so illusive.

Did he exist? Or was he nothing more than a paper doll? Was he real? Or did he live as a copy of another? Why could he never find his true self? Why did everything have to be so false? He had only wanted to live! But like it always had been, like it always would be, he knew he asked too much. He wasn't a man anymore but a pathetic little puppet, and when Apocalypse pulled his strings, he danced as one. He wasn't real anymore. He had no life beyond this illusion. He was merely a living mockery of a long dead man.

"I only wanted life," Warren murmured, looking up to see his friends stare at him accusingly. Their eyes, so beady and condemning, he couldn't bare it! "I never lied to you! I never did! You just never asked me . . ."

And he began to weep, for he didn't know what he was talking about. He could never remember what it was he didn't have here. It came and went, brief flashes of enlightenment, letting him see the reality, but then he went back to the real world, living in confusion and despair. He needed to remember because whatever it was, he was losing it now. God, he had already lost it! It was always too fragile, the truth always cracked under pressure.

* * *

Warren awoke abruptly, his body covered in a fine film of sweat as a response to his bizarre dream, but then his dreams were always like that, portals into a diseased soul, a window into all he hid, the truth always.

"Warren?" The voice whispered in his ear, the soft breath throwing him into a state of consternation and fear. He shook uncontrollably at the cruel and deadly word, struggling to twist away only to find his wrists and ankles tied to the posts of his bed and his body too sluggish to be of any use to him besides.

"The drug is making you feel this way," Candy murmured in his ear, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. She slipped her fingers down his chest, catching on a chain clasped around his neck. She tore it away, glaring at it. On the end of the gold chain was a gold ring, an engagement ring. "You were going to ask her to marry you?"

"Yes." He had planned to do it weeks ago, but every day he grew too fearful that her answer might be no. He was going to do it, he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, but once again fate intervened and left him alone.

"You honestly thought she'd _want_ to marry you?" Candy laughed, undoing the second button with delicate fingers. "I told her all about your precious little secret, Warren, I told her you weren't really alive."

Warren looked away from her, protesting what she was doing, what she was saying, while his body was proving to be useless. "I don't know what you're talking about, Candy, and stop this, I'm not going to play this game."

"Apocalypse warned me you would deny it, like you deny everything, _always,_ " Candy said, viciously tearing his shirt open, leaving his blue chest bare to the iciness of the room. "You're like me, precious, living because Apocalypse said so. Do you remember it? I do. It was the most excruciatingly painful experience of my life."

Warren tugged on the bonds as she cut away his silk shirt with a pair of kitchen scissors. He caught her eye, wishing his wings would respond to his commands, wishing they'd protect him, but they always had been useless that way. Instead, he was forced to lay uncomfortably on his huge wings, helpless.

"I thought to myself, if I have to do what our Dark Lord demands, I might as well make it memorable," Candy confessed, licking his chest in a feline motion. Warren lurched, attempting knock her away, but the submissive position he had been forced in allowed little room for defense. "It's okay, baby, I'm not going to hurt you."

"I won't let you do this," Warren muttered in a cold sweat as his energy was siphoned by the drug. He felt utter helpless, so lost, and the fear of what may come terrified him into a state of horror.

Candy laughed, cutting through the fabric of his pants, running a hand up his leg to follow the trail left by the scissors. "Did I mention the drug takes away control? You may not want it, lover, but your body does."

Warren closed his eyes tightly, praying Betsy would come rescue him and praying he could save himself, but he was tied too tight, and he had no control, no control at all. He thought of gruesome things, of death and disease and despair, but she was right. His body no longer obeyed what his mind told it.

Candy pulled her shirt over her head, moving sensually to the hard music, letting the words and the beat take control. Struggling and in mind Warren fought, but she saw his vulnerability, his truth. "Remember how it used to be?"

"Don't do this," Warren protested in whisper, reaching out for Betsy, for Jean, for someone who could help him before he was forever tainted. Candy placed a finger to her lips, kissing his slack flesh tenderly. "God, don't do this. This isn't real, oh God, this isn't really happening."

"This is real, lover, more real than it's ever been."

"Oh God, help me . . . oh God, please . . ."

* * *

"Don't cry," Candy whispered, wiping away his warm tears with her fingertips. "She won't ever have to know, and now, I get to disappear, and you'll never have to see me again. She can have you."

Warren closed his eyes to her words, to her face, so innocent in its appearance, so evil at its core. This could not be real, he wouldn't let it be. "He sent you, didn't he? Apocalypse sent you to me."

"He gave me life," Candy breathed, dressing herself with steady hands. "And in return, I had to do what he wished of me. The monster detests me, anyway, but he knew I was the only way to get close to you."

Warren gasped a ragged sob, trying to maintain some level of self control. "What was this supposed to do? Break me?"

Candy laughed lightly, lacing her black boots. "Warren, baby, he never sent me to do this. I only wanted one last memory of you. It's a pity I had to steal it, but I'll cherish it always, my love, my _Angel._ "

Candy touched her lips to his before cutting the bonds wrapped tightly around his wrists. His arms fell limply to his side, unable to move or fight back. The drug had worsened his body, making it useless and numb.

Candy held his body to hers, stroking his powerful back with gentle hands, moving over the sinewy muscles in concentric circles, smooth and electric. Moving like a snake, she tempted him and _disgusted_ him with every slow caress.

"You disobeyed him, lover," Candy whispered in his ear. "He has given you a choice, go back to him or die slowly. You must choose one."

"I won't ever go back."

Candy sighed deeply, and the sting of pity drove deep in her chest. "If that is your choice, but you must understand, you grew wings when you shouldn't have. Of you, they are the only things that are real, that are _alive._ They bleed real blood; they live as real flesh. Without them, you cannot live unless you go back to him, Warren. They are what have kept you alive this long, but even they cannot stop it forever. You'll lose them anyway."

Warren's clear blue eyes shot open in horror as he whispered in a final, desperate attempt to save himself, " _no_ . . . oh God, no, not that, anything but that, Candy. _Please_ , if you ever _loved_ me, don't do _that._ It'll destroy me, God, Candy, _no . . ._ "

Candy felt a pang of guilt, of sympathy for his pleas, but it was too late. The deal had been made, and if she didn't do this, then her life would be forfeit. She had died twice already, and she would not go through that again.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, holding him close as she withdrew the katana blade from its sheath, the chosen weapon of his precious lover. How fitting it would be that Betsy's sword would do him the greatest harm. Candy appreciated the irony. "I'm so sorry."

Warren whimpered slightly, holding back the sobs, and for a slight second, Candy almost backed out of her given task, _almost . . ._

Warren screamed as the knife sliced into his flesh, and he cried as the first of the mighty, white wings fell to the floor, painting his world red. He sobbed as the second wing was cleaved from his body, and Candy dropped him on his torn back, stepping away from the massacre.

"Oh, God, Warren, forgive me," she pleaded, staring at the grotesque sight. Warren lay still, only semi-conscious now and shaking violently. A halo of deep crimson continued to expand as his lifeblood slowly ebbed away, killing him.

"What have I done?" Candy murmured, touching her hands to the wet cloth. Pulling her murderous fingers back, she placed them to her head, tattooing her skin with his maroon blood. "My God, what have I _done?"_

Warren moved, eyes half closed in anguish, skin pale and sickly as his essence flowed from his cold form. She caught his glazed eyes, digging her nails deeper into the flesh of her temples. So utterly dead his eyes appeared to her.

"I loved you." The whisper carried weakly in the dead silence. "I _love_ you."

But Warren's dim, blue eyes closed slowly, her words lost in his agony.

"No!" The scream echoed in the dead room, but Warren was ignorant to her cries and her tears and her shame. This was not as she thought it would be. "Apocalypse has damned me! He damned us both, but I fell for his black lies!"

Candy shook her head, stepping back from the mutilation. She wasn't supposed to be feeling this, God, she felt regret and despair when she had convinced herself this was right. She had destroyed him; she had butchered him when she had loved him, for once she had loved him more than life itself.

God, she was a _murderer!_ She didn't _deserve_ life . . .

And in her chest, she plunged the blade, tearing through her lungs and into her heart, ripping apart her insides, condemning her body in a last attempt to save her soul.

Candy collapsed weakly upon the bloody ground, cushioned by a feathery, red appendage, and staring at what she had committed, the slaughter of a pure and innocent _Angel,_ she _died_ as she was meant to so long ago.


	14. Chapter 14

Like a delicate dancer in a music-box, he viewed the world in a constant blur of colour and melody. He danced only when told to by urging fingers. Spinning and spinning, he turned and turned until he was ill with what he had, with the reality, the truth. 

But he was wasn't dancing now. He was crippled, though only vaguely aware of it, and injured to the point he was on the brink of death, if he had ever been alive to begin with. The pulsing of arteries in his numb back, the faint beat of his heart against his heavy chest, the weak pump of his mutated lungs, all increased his awareness of his ebbing life. 

Death had not become him yet. 

But he wanted Death. He no longer wanted to be this so-called survivor. He wanted to die, and he wanted peace, and he wanted eternal oblivion. The Angel had been slaughtered. What more did cruel fate have in store for him? 

But life beckoned him. Every memory he had, ever feeling he had ever been blessed to feel, it all made him long for existence. How could he decide between two equally horrible evils? He feared regret as much as he did death and life together. 

Warren opened his eyes slowly, focussing on the darkened ceiling above. The overhead light glistened with a hint of gold, and he blinked painfully, aware of the horrible agony in his body. He remembered, oh God, he remembered every horrific detail! 

Gathering his the last of his strength, he moved one bloodstained arm across his stomach. Though he knew the truth already, he needed to know for sure, to touch and to feel that his wings were truly and utterly gone from him. He felt beneath his cold body, gasping laboured breaths with every severe movement. 

The wings were as dead as he was! 

His sobs were ragged, and it tore his body apart when he convulsed violently with them, but it was too much to bear. Those beautiful, white wings were him wholly and completely. They stood for everything he imagined himself to be; the beauty and love and hope and life he wanted so much to own and personify. He couldn't have lost them again; it was too cruel a twist of destiny for it all to be happening to him again. 

Struggling with the threat of death and utter despair, he grievously ushered his wounded body onto its stomach. Warren buried his face in the bed, muffling his screams of anguish. With his arms, he pulled himself halfway off the bloody bed until he had to stop, every movement increasing the pain of the fiery inferno as it burned his back. 

He hung there limply like a ragdoll, gagging as he smelled the rancid blood as it reeked to decay around him. It was his, all his, but even the smell wasn't right. It stunk of ammonia and metal oxides, and to the touch, it was thick and cold. 

Inhaling sharply and with one great movement, he rolled himself of the bed onto the carpeted floor, landing with a loud and painful thump. Warren winced again as the blood began to trickle from his left shoulder. After the initial rush of blood, there had been little following, but here he started it up again. 

As always, he did more harm than good. 

The phone was in view, lying on the floor where he had left it. It was only a yard or so away, but to his tired eyes and ailing body, it equalled eternity. Reaching his left arm out before him, he dragged himself a few paces until he had to rest again. The carpet and the resulting friction burned his already sensitive skin, and he could feel his lifeblood ebb away from one of the dire wounds. 

" _Blackbird singing in the dead of night,_ " Warren muttered in song, forcing himself to focus on some other than the excruciating pain. " _Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to arise._ " 

He wasn't sure why he had picked this song to divert his attention. He had heard it countless times in his life recently, for Betsy had often forced him to listen to the White Album, and this song in particular as it was her favourite, until he finally confessed he abhorred the song, but the lyrics had bothered him and stayed with him despite his hatred of the music. Now, he detested them more, loathed them for being the only ones to come to him in his time of need. 

" _Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to be free. Blackbird fly, blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night . . ._ " 

Warren cried out as the searing pain struck his body viciously. He had lost too much blood. He had been wounded too severely. He wasn't going to make it to the phone. He was going to die, alone and in agony. 

But the phone was somehow there, miraculously appearing beside his head. He collapsed weakly onto the carpet, lying there until he found the strength to move one arm. A finger, one, single finger would be all it took to press the autodial. Teeth ground in pain, he pushed with all the force he could muster and dropped the hand back to the ground, straining to listen as the rings chimed, but the sound seemed so far away, barely audible at all. 

At the seventh ring, Warren grew worried. He wasn't deluding himself; he knew if help did not come now, he was going to die. The pain was so intense now, the agony seemingly unending, if no one answered, the despair would slaughter him first. 

But there was that part of him that wanted to let his body fail, to stop this circle of death and life, to prove he wasn't a survivor after all. 

"Hello?" A groggy voice answered slowly. Warren whispered something through parched lips. "What? Listen, it's too damn early in the morning for a prank call. Unless you're calling for the dashingly handsome Robert Drake, there isn't any one else home, so can I take a message?" 

Warren whimpered laconically, biting his lip to hold back the cry of suffering. The instinct to survive, to go on living, was too strong, even for him, a fallen angel. 

The sarcastic tone of the caller changed dramatically. "Who is this? Do you need help?" 

"Bobby?" Warren murmured into the phone like a child, lost and alone. 

"Warren, buddy, what's happened?" Warren winced as the pain increased, fighting down the bile in his stomach. "Warren, damn it, Warren, you're scaring the shit out of me here. What's wrong?" 

"Just come," Warren muttered into the receiver. "I need your help . . . please, Bobby, help me, please . . ." 

"Should I call someone? The police? An ambulance? The hospital?" 

"No . . . just you, nobody else. Please, Bobby, no . . . one . . ." His eyes closed slowly, flickering as he struggled to stay conscious, and Bobby's cries were snuffed out by the strongest sound of all, that left by a deadening silence. 

* * 

"Warren?" Bobby called, standing outside on the balcony in the chilly night. It affected him very little, but there was an atmosphere here that chilled him to the bone. He peered in a window, wiping away the fine film of dirt with a clenched fist. Bobby frowned and touched the glass as ice began to creep upon it as though it lived. He let the window shatter in the extreme cold beneath his finger then stifled the sound as it hit the ground upon a soft bed of snow. "Warren?" 

Bobby stepped back and retched as he caught scent of the rancid aroma in the loft. He brought his hand to his nose and choked, his face distorting in disgust. He caught sight of several smashed pictures and the fireplace with red embers slowly fading. The door was open, and Bobby stuck his head out into the hall, looking up and down the corridor. 

"Warren?" The word echoed down the eerie hall until the sound was dissolved by the blackness. Bobby walked to the elevator, noticing the lock was on. There was no way anybody could get in or out without the codes. He frowned and began to walk back to the door, but his foot caught on something, and he fell to the floor. 

" _Shit!_ " Bobby rubbed his head where he knew a bump was going to form and looked to see what he had tripped on. There, emerging from the shadows, was one human leg, with the other bent at an angle so only the ankle was visible. "Betsy?" 

Bobby grabbed the extended foot and yelped in pain at the darkness crept up his arm, burning through his coat to his cold flesh, melting the sheath of ice layering his skin. Soon the thin ice shield disappeared completely, but he dared not revert to a total ice form and risk dying, risk his human form melting away forever. 

Biting his lip and taking a deep breath, Bobby pulled with all his might, ignoring the smell of searing flesh as he pulled Betsy's body from the shadowy grave. 

Bobby gasped at the sight of her, dropping the leg back to the ground once she was clear of the mass. Cradling his arm close to his body, cooling the wound with a layer of ice, he placed two fingers against her neck. It hurt to do so, but he found the pulse, weak but with a steady beat. 

"Betsy?" Bobby tried again, and she moved slightly, her translucent, black skin shimmering as she shifted. It was as if the shadows had coated her, changing her tanned skin to a near-black colour. Only the red tattoo shone brightly on her face, over her left eye. Her hair remained purple, though darkened by the sombreness veiling her. "Betsy?" 

Her eyes opened slowly, glowing yellow instead of the deep purple he was accustomed to. She blinked several times, opening her mouth and from it flowed a stream of dark energy, hitting the wall behind Bobby's head. "What . . . am . . . I?" 

Bobby heard the pain in her voice and was terrified by the cold and empty sound of her words. "I found you inside the shadows. I pulled you out, but . . ." His voice trailed off as he gesture weakly to her appearance. "Warren needs help." 

"I know." Betsy stood and moved effortlessly across the floor, like she was skating on ice. She paused, turning back to face Bobby. Her bright eyes narrowed into crescents, and in a voice like the dead, she said, "are you coming?" 

Bobby nodded, following her as she sailed into the loft. The shadows lurched and wailed at her arrival then settled into a calm sea as she rose one hand to them. Bobby swallowed loudly, fearing now, fearing her, fearing what had happened to Warren. 

"He is here." Her voice shook the darkness, and the sea of black rolled in waves at the sound. "I can feel him here." Her voice was deep and melodic, and it warmed with every word she spoke about him. Bobby could hear the change, he could feel it. Betsy stumbled, bringing a hand to her head. "He is hurt. I can feel him. He is . . . so badly." 

Betsy face distorted with what Bobby assumed was sadness. She looked as though she might be crying, but no tears fell from her golden eyes. Bobby stepped past her as she dropped to the carpet with a thud, bringing her knees to her chest. 

"Hurts so bad," she murmured as she recked back and forth, "hurts so bad." 

Bobby knew she needed his help, but there was still the matter of finding Warren. Sparing her one last glance, he threw open the door to the master bedroom and ran in. The smell hit him like a hammer, and he fought down his latest meal. 

"Warren!" Bobby cried, his voice cracking with a sob. He saw the wings, he saw Candy laying dead upon the furthest one, and he saw Warren laying still by the phone, a loud beeping resounding from the receiver. "Oh, God . . . I never expected this." 

Bobby ran out of the room, past Betsy as she continued to talk to herself. Grabbing a blanket from the nearest closet, he darted past her again, and this time he could feel her lit eyes following, tracking his every move. 

He shuddered slightly as he entered the scene of death again. He stumbled over one of the dismembered wings then recovered his footing as he pulled Warren naked body off the cold floor and wrapped the fallen Angel in the sheets. 

"Oh, Warren," Bobby hummed, clutching the pale blue body to his and standing slowly. He was grateful Warren's weight was light, lighter even without the massive wings attached to his back. Bobby was afraid his friend might blow away if the wind was strong enough. 

"Betsy, come on, come with me," he said gently, grabbing hold of the closest hand with his singed arm. The flesh was red and blistered, but he was beyond caring about his own pain now. Betsy rose slowly, clutching him like a little girl terrified of where he might bring her. 

They walked slowly. Bobby stopped at the closet once more to find more covering for Warren's frail form. He wrapped more cloth around the man, drawing it tight and snug to seal in all the warmth he was bound to lose. 

"I iced over here," Bobby explained, coating his body with a frozen shield again. "It's the quickest way, and it might stop Warren from bleeding anymore. He should be okay, but Betsy, it's going to be cold. I don't think you've ever been sliding with me before." 

Betsy nodded slowly, her bright eyes staring beyond him, like she was peering directly into his soul. "Do not let go of me?" 

Bobby felt like crying as this childlike question, but he vowed he'd remain strong. He could handle this, but he was suddenly wishing the X-Men hadn't been called away while he and Gambit went gallivanting or that Remy hadn't wandered off drunk to get pierced. "I won't let go of you, Betsy." 

She stepped onto the ice platform, shaking violently as she clutched his hand with greater strength. He looked at her, aware suddenly of how vulnerable she was. "Are you cold? Maybe we should get you some clothes." 

She shook her heard, her dark purple hair cascading like an ethereal waterfall down her black body. "I do not . . . feel touch. It is numb." She paused, as if struggling for words she had forgotten. "Help him. I am okay." 

Bobby nodded, turning quickly away. He was going to fall apart, he knew he was. Damn Remy for not being able to control his alcoholic tendencies! Damn the world for not being able to handle its problem on its own! Damn life for never giving any of them a fair break! 

"Help him," Betsy urged, gesturing him to leave with a move of her head. Bobby extended the slide before them, and he realised it meant everything now. It was the path to salvation, the path to help, the path to life. In a sense, it meant all of that and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song sung by Warren is ‘Blackbird' by the Beatles. It is found on the infamous White Album. And I wish to thank queenB for beta-reading this.


	15. Chapter 15

Betsy could feel the darks forces tugging at her body, beaconing her into the sweet abyss beyond the realm of reality. She could hear the melodic hum of the dark as it writhed and swooned around her, reacting to her every movement, her every thought, but the shadows were also invading her mind, carelessly tearing away the layers of who she was. 

Bobby worked busily, painfully aware of her watching him with her surreal, golden eyes. For the most part, he ignored it, focussing his attention onto Warren's ravaged form, struggling to save his body when Bobby was neither a doctor nor anything close to it. He knew nothing about what he was attempting to do, but he would do it because he had no choice anymore. It had all fallen to him. 

Betsy untucked her figure from the corner and stood, walking up to Bobby as he furiously worked to save her lover. Brushing a strand of golden hair from Warren's face and extremely careful not to touch his flesh with her own, she blew a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

Bobby watched her wearily, pausing in his work. Betsy caught his eyes with hers, blinking slightly, and for a second, the bright glow dulled. Bobby found it odd the strongest light source would come from her when the room itself was dim with darkness. Betsy had not been able to tolerate the overhead lamps. 

"You stay here . . . save him," Betsy said slowly, speaking like a child, "and I must go." 

Bobby stared at her in question, a look of deep concern on his boyish face. "Go where, Betsy? Where do you have to go?" 

Betsy bit her lip, and she closed her eyes then opened them again slowly, the light captured within glowing brighter. "I must go into the light." She stopped and winced as she struggled with a language she had somehow forgotten. "The light can _heal_. The light can _save_." 

Reluctantly, Bobby nodded and turned away from her, leaving her to do as she wished. She walked from the room, touching the overhead light switch as she went. She yelped slightly as the brightness flooded the room and came in contact with her skin, but she continued walking, stumbling but determined to retain her poise. 

Bobby closed his eyes as he heard an anguished scream echo down the cold hall, and in response, the shadows in the room twisted violently. At the sound, Warren stirred beneath his hands, and Bobby upped the anaesthetic, returning to his suturing as, with tears burning in his blue eyes, he tried to block out the painful, torturous cries as they sounded into the silent night, shattering his self control, and finally, Bobby wept for all that had been lost. He wept. 

* * * 

Hours later, Bobby sat and stared at the wall, finding something fascinating in its whiteness. There was nothing there save for one smeared carcass of a bug and a hole where Hank's signed picture of the Rolling Stones had once hung before Bobby stole it and hid it somewhere in the mansion. Hank still hadn't found the cherished item. 

Bobby chucked slightly at the memory before abruptly stopping. It seemed too out of place here, too wrong, when death and suffering stifled everything living. He shouldn't be laughing when Warren had been violated completely and Betsy had lost herself to the shadows. 

Bobby stood and noticed Betsy was back in the room, watching him as she sat on the ground, her naked form clothed only in a knitted blanket she had found abandoned. Funny, he could not remember her reentering. 

Betsy's skin had faded after her exposure to the harsh light, but it still held a faint tint of black, like she had been dirtied by ashes. Her eyes were no longer vibrantly golden, only a dull reflection of what they had once been. She had almost become normal again. 

She caught his eye and held it, making him painfully aware of her recent suffering. He could see it there, etched deep in her violet eyes for all time, for it had been worse than death itself. 

"How are you feeling?" Bobby asked quietly, leaning against the chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Can I get you anything?" 

Betsy's eyes dropped to the ground as she clutched the blanket tight around her naked form. "Take me back to yesterday, so I'd know she would do this. Erase my memories, so I wouldn't have to remember what I felt in that horrid realm of darkness. Make it that Warren would still be alive, and whole, and complete." 

Bobby's expression saddened, and he licked his dry lips, ill at ease with the requests. "He's not dead, Betsy." 

"In body, maybe he still lives, but what of his mind? You didn't see her, Bobby, you didn't see Candy's eyes, the pure hate living in them. You can't understand how Warren loved those wings more than anything in this world, and to lose them again is to die again for him. The Warren I knew is dead." 

"Don't you dare say that!" Bobby cried suddenly, pointing at her with an accusing finger. He wouldn't let her give up, not when there was so much hope left yet. 

"Why not? It's true, isn't it? To say, to _think,_ anything else is to delude yourself, Robert." 

"He wants to live. I know it!" 

"And how would you know that? You've never been anything more than a snivelling, little child who has refused his entire life to live in the real world!" 

Bobby flinched slightly then brushed the insult off, dismissing it. "If that's what you want to think about me, go right ahead, Betsy, I'm not going to stop you." He neared her, crouching to her level. "But he called me for help. Despite the pain he was in, he forced himself to the nearest phone _for help_. If he had wanted to die, he would never have done that." 

Betsy stared at him for several minutes before she turned away from him, nodding slightly in agreement. "I'm sorry, then. That was wrong of me to say, but," she paused, suddenly unwilling to give her thoughts away, but Bobby gently urged her, "but I'm so afraid, so _utterly terrified,_ that when he wakes up I will have lost him forever. Before him, Bobby, there was nothing here." She clutched a fist to her breast, and she lowered her head to hid her tears as they streamed down her cheeks. "I can't go back to the way things were." 

"You won't have to. It might take him awhile to get past this, but he will, and then you'll have the rest of your lives to spend together." 

Betsy was torn between the urge to laugh at the sick joke or cry because she knew the truth, and Bobby was still on a misguided path. Didn't he understand he hadn't saved Warren? He had merely given him another month, another week, another day, to live. Only Betsy knew Warren was to die either way in the inevitable end. 

"What is it?" Bobby asked, reflecting upon the sudden look of despair on Betsy's face. 

Betsy had realised now she couldn't go through this ordeal alone. She could not support Warren without help, and Bobby would have to be that help. The choice had been made the moment Warren had chosen to involve Bobby with that call. "Warren's dying." 

"No, he isn't. I told you, he's stable now." 

Betsy shook her head at his ignorance. "No, he is _dying_. What I'm about to say, you can't tell anybody else. You have to promise not to tell a soul, not even Hank or Jean or Scott, especially Scott. Promise me you won't utter a word of this, Bobby." 

Bobby stared at her for a moment, contemplating whether or not he should accept this secret. What if it was too big to hold? What if by keeping it he'd only be hurting himself, or Betsy, or Warren? But Bobby nodded slowly, accepting the truth. "Okay, you can trust me." 

"I know I can," Betsy murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her shadowy face. "I know I had no reason for believing her when she said it, but there were other things, things I had picked up from his mind, that made me unable to deny the truth any longer. Now, when I look back, there is nothing he has done that hasn't given it away, and now . . . now I don't know why I didn't see it before!" 

"Betsy, I'm not following you here." 

Betsy sighed deeply, clenching her fists in frustration. "Candy told me he had never really been alive after the plane exploded, not for real anyway, and she told that he was dying now. He can't live without Apocalypse, Bobby, so if Warren doesn't go back to the madman, he'll die . . ." 

"And Warren would never return to him, so he's dying now." Bobby shook his head weakly, wishing Warren had never got himself into this mess in the first place. How had Warren not realised he was making a deal with the devil? "I get you." 

"What are we going to do?" Betsy asked quietly, looking past Bobby into the dark room where Warren slept fitfully, muttering his hellish nightmare as he continued to live it within the dark recesses of his mind. 

"Well, since I've been dragged into . . ." 

"You agreed to keep quiet, Bobby, I didn't drag you into anything." It was only a half truth, but she needed no resentment from Bobby towards her. It would only make things worse. 

Bobby cleared his throat loudly, ready to continue. "Since I've been _willingly invited_ into this secret, I can honestly say I don't know, Betsy. Questions are going to be raised when the others return; Scott and company are going to want to know what happened here." 

"Then we leave that part of the story out. They don't need to know what he really is, and it works just as well without it," Betsy added, shivering in the cold of the room. Bobby handed her another blanket from a nearby table, and she accepted it graciously. "And you can leave out the part about the _shadows_. They need not know about _that,_ either." 

Bobby nodded silently, wishing he could escape her abruptly cold attitude. There were times when he considered Betsy a friend, somebody he could get along with and like, but then there were other times, times like this, when he was glad Warren had to deal with her aloofness and not him. 

Betsy stood suddenly, darting towards the door as the blankets flowed behind her like water. Halfway out of the infirmary, she paused and turned back to face Bobby. "Two things, Bobby. One, I am going to change into something more practical. I _expect_ you to tend to Warren until I return." 

"And two?" 

"And two, let me remind you, I am a telepath, Robert. I warn you to be careful of what you think because God knows Warren's not quite up to _dealing_ with me now." Betsy spit the last few words, and Bobby winced inwardly. Sparing him once last, menacing look, Betsy left the room, and Bobby was left alone with his stupidity. 

* * * 

"I'm sorry," Betsy apologised quietly as she stood behind Bobby, having returned as quickly as she could. 

He jumped in his seat, nearly spilling hot coffee on a rather important part of the male anatomy, and turned around to look at her. Her skin continued to fade to a tan colour, and her eyes were normal once again, but she still looked so foreign to him. She was dressed in jeans and was wearing one of Warren's ‘emergency' shirts. Her hair was tied back, but her appearance bothered him. She looked so different from the Betsy he had seen last week, so aged and utterly exhausted. He barely recognised her anymore. 

"It's okay. You have every right to be in a bad mood after, you know, everything." His eyes rested upon Warren for a brief second, and Bobby's pity for him, for Betsy, was quite evident. "Betsy, tell me, is he going to wake up?" 

"I want him to," Betsy responded, hugging her cold body. "I want more than anything for him to wake up, for everything to be like it was before, but there's this part of me, this huge, gaping part, that's screaming I've lost him already. The trauma is so severe, his body's been hurt so badly, I can't fool myself into thinking for sure he's ever going to come out of it." 

Bobby nodded his understanding, and for the first time since they had returned back to the mansion, he realised something both of them had forgotten. Another character in this play of sorrow and despair had been overlooked. "Candy, she's still there." 

Betsy's face darkened, her eyes narrowing into crescent slits. "We should let her rot there with the rats and maggots. God knows it's the least she deserves." 

"Fine." Bobby sighed deeply, aware of the horrible task that fell to him to accomplish. "You stay here and look after Warren. I'll go to Soho to," Bobby paused, shuddering at the grotesque idea, "clean up before anybody realises something's up." 

Betsy stared in indignation, but even she could not deny things would be far, far worse if anybody else was to suspect what had gone on in the night. Finally, she nodded slightly, agreeing to his idea. 

"I'll be back soon," Bobby assured her, placing a hand on her arm in assurance, and her attention was caught by the shoddy bandages wrapped around his burnt arm. Bobby looked at them, aware Betsy had no idea what had happened to cause it. "It was an accident. I didn't know your skin would burn me." 

"Then I did that." It was a statement, not a question, and Betsy felt ill at the unwanted knowledge. 

"The shadows did it, Betsy, there's a difference, a big difference, all the difference in the world," and Bobby found himself doing something odd. He found himself kissing her cheek in a gentle gesture of friendship and concern. "I'll be back. Watch over him, Betsy, you're his Angel now, don't forget that."


	16. Chapter 16

Touch, the act of touch, to feel it stung and burned. To be touched was to be violated. To be touched was to be raped. To be touched was to _die,_ but to be stroked, to feel gentle hands upon sore and weary flesh, was to be saved. He could feel the tender gesture before he was awake. In his dreams, he felt the movement of delicate fingers across his face, caressing like a soft breeze. It was almost heaven. It would have been, if he had died. If . . . 

The pain was there before he even recalled what pain felt to the senses. Instinctively, he knew where he was and why he was there, though he wished the knowledge away. He remembered his brief moments of consciousness before convincing himself he was dead. Bobby must have come for him; Bobby must have saved him. He _was_ salvation . . . 

His eyes opened slowly, painfully to a cruel world, and it was like emerging from the womb, like being violently forced from it. He had been so close to that sweet place of oblivion, so tragically close to a never-ending state of peace and freedom, but as always, his mortal life begged to be lived and could not be denied. 

"Warren?" The voice of an Angel carried on sweet lips of passion and love. It hurt to hear it, and he wished the sound to leave, to let him die in peace, to leave him deaf and protected. "Warren, luv, I'm here." 

As much as he wished her away, he knew the pain would be far greater if she left. To be without her, was to be without his arms, or his eyes, his mind, his _soul._ To cleave them was to destroy a whole. He wanted so much now to speak to her in response, to assure her of his love, but the words would not come to his parched lips. 

Her hands swept over his face, brushing golden hair away from his angelic face. Her fingertips grazed his lips, and his kissed them softly. She paused in her journey, her head swooping down to kiss the side of his face. "I love you, Warren, I love you." 

She straightened her body, resuming her petting. He grew tired and wearied once more as the drain on his system increased. It hurt so much to be alive, but right now, cradled in the arms of his lover, he could wish for nothing else. 

* * * 

When Bobby returned home, it was late morning and a day later. The mansion was still abandoned, and Gambit was nowhere to be found a whole two days after the fact. Bobby hadn't expected anything more from him. The Cajun had the tendency to be missing for days when he was needed. 

Bobby wanted nothing more than to eat, take a shower and sleep. The last couple days had been long and torturous. Candy was buried where she should have been, a huge ice shovel taking care of the deed in only minutes. In his opinion, it was a stupid use of his power, and he had felt like a graverobber doing it, but he could think of no other way to go about it. It had taken hours more to clean the loft, to scrub it pure of all the evil and despair that festered and grew there, and yet, he knew he would never clean his soul of what he had viewed there. 

Travelling into the quiet house, he walked immediately to the kitchen to retrieve some food before falling asleep. He peered out into the vast yard, and the sight he was confounded with stunned him. Warren was there with Betsy, and together they sat in basking in the sun. They weren't speaking. They were simply sitting, arms entwined as if it hurt to be apart but bodies separated as if it hurt to be together. It was obvious something was terribly wrong with them. 

Quietly, he went out into the morning sun, stepping up behind them. Betsy looked his way, her eyes inviting him over. In the sunlight, she looked so pure and beautiful, but he had seen what ugliness the shadows had brought to her. He could never forget that horror. 

"We're going to England," Betsy said, staring out across the small lake as it glistened in the light of the new day. It seemed wonderfully protected from the harsh darkness of the last few nights. "We both need time to heal." 

Bobby nodded slightly, catching Warren's eye. His skin, once blue and vivid, was now a dull grey. His eyes were still cold, still beautiful, but something drastic had changed. They no longer held the joy life in them. Even his golden locks seemed changed, for they hung without spice over his eyes, messy and dishevelled. 

"When are you leaving?" 

"Now," Warren whispered with a cracked voice, leaning away from Betsy's body as if he suddenly feared her touch. Bobby noticed how carefully he moved, how straight he sat as if he feared arching his back. The pain was probably incredible. 

"What am I supposed to tell the others when they return?" 

Betsy frowned, looking to the ground. It became obvious to Bobby that this had not been her idea originally. "Nothing." 

Bobby's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Nothing?" 

"I don't want them to know," Warren murmured, closing his azure eyes. "I don't want them to know why we left. I don't want them to know I . . . _lost_ the . . . wings again. I don't want them to know anything." 

Bobby paled as he gaped in shock at the ridiculous plan. "You can't possibly hope to hide this from them! You can't stay in England forever, and when you come back, they're going to realise something's up. This is wrong, Warren, they deserve to know!" 

"No," Warren responded softly, shaking his head painstakingly. Despairingly, he turned his lifeless blue eyes to Bobby. His face held no emotion, but within his eyes was held the suffering of the world. "They deserve nothing more than what I have given them, and . . . I . . . will not be _coming_ back, Bobby." 

Bobby wished he could close his ears to those terrible words. He knew death, not intimately, but he knew of it. Warren had died once before, and he remembered how it felt to have somebody he had known for years to be viciously sucked away in an instant. It was a horrible feeling, something he wanted never to feel again, yet here it was again, knocking at his door, and he realised he could never escape it. "Don't say that, Warren, please." 

"Anything else would be a lie." 

Bobby wanted to scream at his rational response, but he mustered a simple, "then lie to me. I don't want to know! Everybody else gets to live without knowing the truth, but what if that's what I want, too? Huh? _What if?_ " 

"I can erase your memories if you wish it," Betsy said quietly, her accent soft and gentle, and it calmed Bobby somewhat, but he still felt as if he would burst. "Bobby, you have got to understand, essentially, this is for the best. It would only hurt them to know anything else." 

"And it doesn't hurt me?" Bobby asked with a hushed voice, and suddenly, for the first time in years, he was cold. Shivering, he pulled his sweater close to his freezing body. To be cold alarmed him greatly, no, to be cold _terrified_ him. 

"No, I don't want to forget. Forgetting would be worse. Forgetting would be far, far worse." 

* * * 

Hours later, Bobby stood outside in the late-autumn night, still cold and shivering because of it. He wore several sweaters and a coat, but he could not stop shaking. Betsy was too busy to notice, packing Warren's town car full of bags and suitcases. Warren sat on the bench out front, staring at the ground with blank eyes, leaning slightly forward with his hands places firmly beside him. Bobby walked over and sat beside him. 

"Are you sure this is what you want?" 

Warren nodded slowly, closing his eyes. 

"I think this is so wrong, Warren, so, so wrong," Bobby muttered, but Warren refused to give any recognition to the words, and Bobby knew he was beyond caring. He cocked his head slightly, staring straight at the pale man he had known for almost eight years. 

Warren hadn't changed much since that innocent time. He had not grown taller nor had his voice deepened nor had he grew into a man before Bobby's eyes. Warren had come to the school a man at eighteen and had, in turn, witnessed Bobby's grow to maturity. 

Back then, there had been such a radical difference between the two, so much so that they used to bicker constantly. Bobby had never hated him, disliked certainly, but there was never any malicious intent involved. It was nearer to sibling rivalry as both had grown up as single children in unsteady households, Bobby's a life of bigotry and hate, Warren's a life of apathy and ignorance. 

They had seen so many things together. They had travelled to other planets, other solar systems and dimension. They had suffered through pain and sadness together, both helping the other without even realising it. They were not the best of friends, but Bobby thought that if he was to have an older brother, he'd like him to be like Warren. 

Though Bobby knew Warren was suffering in silence, utterly lost in despair, he also knew Warren could live through it, would be able to push beyond everything again and realise that who he was hadn't been lost or killed because Warren was, after all, a survivor. 

But he wasn't going to survive this. He was going to _die._

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Bobby asked rhetorically, but a part of him wanted the real answer, too. He needed to hear it from Warren's mouth, to hear one of his oldest friends admit his time was ebbing away, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

Warren shook his head and looked to Bobby, the blue eyes that had survived and seen more than Bobby could imagine, staring at him. "No, you won't." 

The words were whispered through a raspy voice, and Bobby turned away from Warren, brining a hand to shield his face. It was stupid of him to be crying at this. There was nothing these tears could do for Warren anymore. 

"Damn you, Warren. Why the _hell_ did you do this in the first place? Why the _hell_ did you have to care so much about those _damned_ wings?" Bobby demanded suddenly, and Betsy looked up sharply from the car, glaring at the harsh words, but Warren continued to stare ahead. "Are you even listening to me?" 

"Yes," Warren muttered, and he turned to Bobby, grabbing his head in between his greyish hands, forcing him still with his thumbs. It became obvious to Bobby that it pained Warren even to speak, for the suffering was pooling deep in his eyes. "Bobby, I don't want to die, I never did. It was a horrible mistake. A mistake that, if I could, I'd take back. It was never supposed to happen this way." 

Warren paused, gasping for breath as sharp stabs of pain darted through his body, but he retained his hold on Bobby, refusing to let go. "On my computer, the password _mentalbutterfly_ , is the complete story. I want you to read it and know everything, to know every secret I was always so afraid to tell anybody. Promise me, you won't forget it. This must never happen again, to anybody." 

Bobby attempted to hide his shock, but he failed miserably. Unsure of what Warren wished him to say, he simply nodded, and, in an action that both stunned Bobby and moved him to actual tears, Warren kissed his forehead. It was the strangest thing Bobby could have imagined, but it was an apt goodbye. 

Betsy helped Warren to his feet, supporting his meagre weight as they walked slowly to the car. Bobby watched as the doors shut, and Betsy started the engine. Bobby waved weakly, his frame icy and cold. He hated the feeling that had somehow invaded his system, but more than anything, he feared it because he knew it was never going to go away, for it was the feeling Death left in its wake. 

The window rolled down as the car drove slowly past Bobby. Warren's head appeared, and he smiled the most authentic smile Bobby had seen from him since Apocalypse. "See you later, Bobby, it's been fun." The window rolled up again, and the car lurched as it sped forward into the future. 

Watching it, Bobby suddenly laughed at Warren's final, if not prophetic, words as the car drove out of his sight and screamed out, "someday, Warren, someday!" 

Bobby laughed and laughed until his laughter was drowned out by his soulful, ragged sobs, and he collapsed on the lawn, weeping for what had been lost, pounding the grass in anger at what has been taken, and he whispered to the increasing wind: 

" _Someday._ " 

* * * 

The grandfather clock, left to Xavier by his grandfather, chimed as it hit midnight. Bobby sat in a large chair, quiet and alone in the darkness. A picture of the original X-Men sat on the table beside him, the light of the moon reflecting off the smooth glass. 

The floor behind him creaked loudly, and Bobby turned his head slightly at the surprise of being disrupted, but his surprise quickly turned to anger. "Gambit? You fucking bastard, is that you?" 

A cold, deep laugh resounded in response, and Bobby could not help but think of Jabba the Hutt as he heard it. The sound itself made his skin crawl and his blood run cold, and it did not take a genius to guess who it was. 

"He isn't here," Bobby said to the darkness, remaining in place. 

Bobby heard the pause, the contemplation. So the fucking madman didn't know his bird had flown the coupe. Some threat he was, some threat indeed if he couldn't track his own game. Bobby laughed bitterly, spitefully, and swivelled his head to smile at the hated enemy. 

"He isn't here, Apocalypse, so why don't you just leave before I take it upon myself to kill you." Apocalypse didn't move, but simply stood there in the darkness, looking menacing. Bobby wasn't going to fall for it, so the cold crept slowly upon his body, swiping flesh for ice. 

"My son has run away, has he?" Apocalypse laughed again, a dark, heartless chuckle, and the hate rose in Bobby's stomach, begging to be freed. "Does he honestly think he can escape me? Does he honestly think it is not within my power to retrieve him?" 

"Do you honestly think he'd ever return to you?" Bobby challenged, rising from the chair, his breath haloing his head like smoke. "You don't give him enough credit, Apocalypse, he's stronger than even you realise. Accept that you have lost." 

Apocalypse smiled, his blue lips stretching across his mechanical face. Bending his head in mock surrender, he turned from the young X-Man. "Make no mistake about it, Robert Drake, he is mine. He will always be mine." 

Bobby growled deep in his throat, but in a blink of the eye, Apocalypse was gone, provided he had even been there in the first place. Bobby returned to the chair, reverting to human form once again. He sat down and stared at the clock as time continued to slip slowly away.


	17. Chapter 17

The weather in England matched Warren's mood, depressed and dreary. It was a fitting place to be, Warren realised, for to be any place else was to live a lie. He had read _‘Wuthering Heights'_ at the Professor's request, but he hadn't understood until now just how dreadful a place it must have been, how moody and dull, how it could drive a person mad with sadness. 

"It's not always like this," Betsy said suddenly to shatter the eerie silence. 

Warren nodded, pulling his fingers away from the pane of glass protecting him from the outside world. He sat with his back to her, protecting it, for it hurt to sit in any other position. The ride over the old, worn roads was rough, and by arching his body toward the window, he also shielded himself from her. 

"The moors aren't always so _dead._ " 

* * * 

Betsy unlocked the door to Braddock Manor and moved to disable the security system, but to her surprise, it was already down. She looked around slowly, noticing the coat and the wet boats by the door, and the umbrella hanging on the wall, dripping water into small puddles below it. 

"Brian?" She called out, inwardly swearing. She hadn't considered the possibility he might be here, but after the loss of his powers, she supposed there wasn't any other place he could go. 

"Betsy?" The voice came from the stairs to the caverns below the massive house, and the door opened slowly, his blond head peering out with suspicious blue eyes. He was attired only in a ratty pair of overalls, with a pair of glasses holding his long hair from his face. "What are you doing here?" 

"Why didn't you tell you'd be here?" She asked immediately, pointing at him accusingly. 

Brian stared at her finger then to her face, noticing something had changed. Much to his dismay, she wasn't the same Betsy he had seen months ago. "Something has happened, hasn't it?" He asked, sensing the feelings stirring within his twin but unable to decipher them to find the truth. "What is it?" 

Betsy took his hand, leading him to the door. Brian moved without question and gasped in shock at the sight he beheld. 

Warren looked up from where he sat as he saw them appear in the door. Somehow, seeing Betsy's brother like this without warning, lessened the fear he had about their meeting, for he really didn't care anymore. It had lost all importance. 

Brian looked to Betsy in question, and she looked to Warren. Warren looked away, letting his eyes fall to the wet ground. He knew what he must look like to the man, and he didn't care. He didn't care his skin was a pale grey tickled with a faint suggestion of blue. He didn't care his hair was greasy and limp. He didn't care his eyes were bloodshot and pale. He didn't care his back was scarred and mutilated. He simply couldn't care. 

It hurt too much. 

"Can you get the bags?" Betsy asked quietly, and Brian nodded placidly, hurrying over to the open trunk. He pulled out the largest suitcase and nearly dropped it, unaccustomed to his lack of strength. Betsy said nothing, knowing it would harm his pride to say anything. Instead, she grasped hold of Warren's upper arm, forcing him into a stand, and there was a brief flash of fear in Warren's eye that just as quickly disappeared, but not before Brian saw it. 

They proceeded slowly into the huge house, Brian going first to clear the way of his mess, knowing Betsy wouldn't likely appreciate ending up on the floor as she supported her lover as he coped with what it felt like to stand without the mighty wings. This wasn't exactly the way Brian had planned to meet Warren, but there was little he could do now to rectify that. They were both here. 

They entered the sitting room, Brian disappearing to bring the rest of the bags into the mansion, and Betsy helped Warren carefully onto the couch. He looked around, his eyes resting on a mammoth painting of a man and a woman, sitting together in the very room. 

"My parents," Betsy supplied, sitting next to Warren, who had already moved away from her. "It's the only image we have left of my father. He didn't like having his photograph taken, for on Otherworld, it wasn't the custom. I think I'd forget what he looked like if not for that portrait." 

His eyes following the path of paintings lining the other walls, they paused on a painting of a young woman, her long locks of gold shimmering in their splendour and her blue eyes barely containing her passion. "That's you." 

"A long time ago," Betsy conceded, brushing her purple hair away from her dark violet eyes. "Before the purple, before the . . . change. I wanted to take it down the last time I was here, but Brian wouldn't hear of it." 

"You can't forget who you are," Warren said in a hush, turning away from the painting. There was something about this place that made him fell as if time had been left behind. The half Gothic, half Victorian style architecture, the interior design, every single detail made him feel as if he had become misplaced in history somehow. 

"I know." Bending near to him, Betsy brushed a stray lock of golden hair from Warren's troubled face, missing the flinch of his body. She had focussed on his sharp features and how his strong chin seemed more pronounced with the odd tint his skin had taken when the bright blue had left to be replaced by a more dreary, more dull tone. It made him look ill. No. It made him look dead. 

Brian cleared his throat loudly, painfully aware of what he was disrupting. "The car is unloaded. I was just about to put dinner on if you're interested." 

Betsy smiled, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly. "Trying to ensure we don't stay long, dear brother?" 

"Why ever would I want that, sister dearest?" Brian laughed, and Betsy mimicked the chortle sadly, paying careful attention to the sorrowful look on Warren's face. Brian noticed it, too. "Let me get changed, and I'll prepare the meal. Fear not, Elisabeth, I have been known to cook successfully a few times in my life." 

Brian spared a last look to the troubled couple before turning to leave. He knew in time he would receive an explanation in full, and he could wait for it, but deep in the pit of his stomach was a little voice screaming at him that he was better off remaining in the dark. 

* * * 

Betsy stopped in front of Warren's room, wishing he'd say _their room_ to acknowledge he wanted to be with her, but she knew it might be wanting too much. He had been through such trauma she couldn't expect him to be as he was before. 

Opening the door, he walked in and Betsy followed, but he turned around, stopping her from going any further. Betsy looked to him, staring straight into his eyes, and he returned the glare icily, making plain his desire she leave him be. 

"The bandages on your back have to be changed," Betsy stated quietly. "You can't possibly hope to do it alone." Warren backed into the room like a ghost. "You _shouldn't_ have to do it alone. Let me help you, please, let me help . . ." 

The door shut in her face, and she turned her head away from it, forcing herself to be strong, forcing herself to ignore how he had turned her away. 

Turning on her heel, she proceeded from whence she had come. 

* * * 

An hour later, as Brian stood busy at work in the kitchen, Betsy emerged from the west wing, looking tired and agitated. Brian raised a blond eyebrow in question, noticing Warren was nowhere to be seen. 

"He's . . . tired," Betsy replied to the silent question, sitting down at the table and pushing her hair away from her face as she leaned forward with two elbows on the surface. Massaging her temples wearily, she sighed deeply, wishing the light in the kitchen was far brighter than it was. 

Brian pulled two steaming hot meat pies from the oven, leaving the third to burn as it pleased, and sat across from his twin, moving the plate toward her. Betsy reached for the meal, and Brian put a hand on hers, looking intently at her. "What happened, Betsy? And please don't lie to me. It's hard not to see something has changed here, with you, with him." 

Betsy closed her eyes, pulled her hand away and leaned back against the chair, running her palms over her face to loosen the sore flesh. "Oh God, I don't know where to start everything's been so horrible." 

"Start at the beginning," Brian suggested calmly. 

Betsy laughed weakly, placing a hand across her mouth to stop herself. "If I knew where the commencement was, I would tell you, but I simply don't know. Needless to say, I wish there had never been a beginning, but nowhere near as much as I wish there had never been an end. 

"Weeks ago, Candy Southern, the lover Warren thought dead, returned from her grave. I knew from the beginning, my instinct told me as much, that something wasn't right with her, but Warren refused to believe it. Even as the days progressed, and she grew steadily more aloof and cold, I knew he still clung to some hopeless ideal he held about her, but I don't think either of us ever suspected she'd do what she did. 

"Three, maybe four, nights ago, I can't remember, she finally made her move. She caught me unawares as I slept, after having fought with Warren over memories that turned out not be his own. She drugged me, and while half unconscious, I was dragged into the hall, where she left me alone. I do not think when she put me there, she knew what would happen to me, and really, I remember nothing until Bobby woke me. According to him, I had merged with the shadows and remained submerged for God knows how long. I almost lost myself, Brian, I almost did. The light bought me back, it was excruciating and I would sell my soul not to go through it again, but the light brought me back." 

Brian grew pale and worried with every word she spoke. He leaned nearer to her, looking intently at her face to read the emotions she had become so inapt at hiding. "I felt something, several days back. I could not describe it at the time, but it was like this terrible cold had overtaken my body, but everything I touched felt as though it seared my flesh. It the morning it was gone, but I still remember it vividly." 

"I must have projected it onto you, then," Betsy deduced, mirroring his move without realising it. "I'm sorry, Brian, but you've been apart of my mind so long I sometimes forget that if the thought is strong enough, you can feel it even in England." 

"It was nothing compared to what you must have felt," Brian replied quietly, dismissing her misplaced apology. He looked down as another thought crossed his mind and looked back up to Betsy, catching her purple eyes. "What of Warren?" 

"Warren? God, Warren's been completely destroyed." Brian moved to protest, but Betsy shook her head, a tear slipping down her face. "It's true. He knows it, and so do I. I saw him that night, bloody and naked, his body totally ripped apart, his face twisting in his troubled sleep as he relived the horror in his mind. He had been an Angel, but I saw him at his most vulnerable, nearly dead and dying still." Betsy breathed deeply to regain her composure. "When you looked at him, what did you see?" 

Snapped from his thoughtfulness as he began to suspect there was more to the eye than what Betsy had seen, Brian stared quizzically before answering, "I saw Warren." 

"No, Brian, when you looked at him, when you caught his eyes or looked at his face, what did you see in it, in them?" Brian made no move to answer, and Betsy reached over and squeezed his hand. "Please, Brian, I need to know what you saw when you looked at him." 

"I saw Death," Brian whispered finally, shivering at the mention as the cold wind outside began to howl as if on cue to the story. "On his face, in every line and crevice, it was there. I've seen the dead, Betsy, and all looked more alive than he." 

"His wings are gone and with them, his soul. His body, it appears, was dead long before I met him, and to hold all that knowledge within him, to hold the horrid memories in his mind, I can't understand why he lives now, not after all that." 

"I can tell you, for Death was not the only thing I saw on his face." Brian smiled gently at his sister's naivety. "It's love. I'm not blind, Betsy, I saw how his eyes flickered with life when you spoke to him. It's love, pure and simple, and that is why he lives now. _Love._ " 

* * * 

It hurt. That's all he could feel, all he could focus on. He was exhausted though he had slept for days. He was in pain though he had so many drugs in his system he could barely think straight. For the first time in years, he wanted sleep and would willingly take the deadening dreams of Candy as they came. In truth, he _yearned_ for sleep. 

In his mind's eye was the horrid image he had seen, the void left by his wings. He should have let Betsy help him, he should have let the one person who would love him to death help bare the weight of his suffering, but he had forced her away. Would she come back to him? Would she forgive him for being too proud and ashamed to show himself to her? 

"Warren?" The voice called in the dark and his head shot up in horror, his mind racing with endless ideas and situations he would have to face. He couldn't handle anything more! 

Forcing himself to calm down, Warren looked around the dark room, but he could see there was nobody there. 

"Warren?" 

His face buried in the sheets, he turned his head again and this time he caught a glimpse of something, of somebody, but he couldn't remember the voice, or was he just hearing it wrong? A mind could play cruel tricks on a tired body. 

"Warren?" Betsy, it was Betsy, and he relaxed onto the bed, whimpering as the pain became unbearable again. The momentary shift in attention had cured him, but the minute his mind was free, it returned to its suffering. 

"Warren, sweetheart, why aren't you sleeping?" She ran her fingers through his golden hair, tousling it messily. "Are you hurting? Should I get you some warm milk to help you sleep?" He remained silent. "It is the pain, isn't it?" 

Warren clutched the sheets between his fingers, wishing her far, far away from him. He couldn't bare to think of how he would feel alone, but having her so close, knowing how much she cared, it frightened him to know he would lose it all. 

"Leave me alone," he rasped with a gasp, his voice deep and cold. 

"Warren," Betsy murmured, moving her hand down his head to his back, careful of the wounds as she danced upon his clothed flesh. Warren tried to push to his elbows from where he lay, but the gentle pressure she applied on his body would not allow him to move. "Calm down, Angel . . ." 

"Don't call me that!" He screamed suddenly, and shoved her, knocking her off the bed. She hit the wood floor with a loud thump, her head the first contact with the hard surface. Warren stared in horror of what he had done, and forcing himself to move, he scrambled over to her, hugging her tightly with no regard for his well-being. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

Betsy was too stunned to make sense of his irrational words. The throbbing in her head was great, and she could feel the warm trickle of blood slide down her face . . . no . . . it wasn't blood. It was water, _tears._

"I'm sorry," Warren murmured again and again, frantic in his disgust of his horrid, unforgivable actions. Stroking her hair with soft hands, he mumbled his mute apologies, and when the confusion left, Betsy brought her hands to his head, hugging him in return. "I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, Betts, I never want to hurt you." 

"It's okay; I'm okay," she assured him, ignoring the pain. It would equal nothing in the end, just like the tears she cried for him when he was unable to cry for himself would mean even less than nothing in the aftermath.


	18. Chapter 18

A week, he had lived another week. He was invigorated by the thought, joyed when his heart had felt only sorrow for so long. In a glorious truth, it meant he had survived another year. He had made it, alive though in pieces, to his twenty-sixth birthday. 

Apocalypse had said he wouldn't make it to twenty-five without him, _twenty-five!_ Warren could barely remember him uttering that prediction, but he knew it had been said, and he had proven Apocalypse wrong once more. It filled him with an odd sense of satisfaction, like he had somehow proven his worth with it. It had been his own private rebellion. 

But Warren knew he'd never live to see twenty-seven. He doubted he would even live to see next week. If he did, then he was lucky, and if he didn't, then he was damned, but twenty-six was good enough for him. He was twenty-six years old! 

"Luv? It's getting a bit nippy. Do you want a sweater?" Betsy called from the door into the garden, looking upon him oddly. Warren seemed almost giddy, and she could not help but think he had finally lost his wits. "Warren?" 

"I'm fine, thank you," he replied quickly, swinging his legs as he sat on the stone bench. Betsy was mothering him, or smothering him, it depended on when Warren was asked, but he wasn't bothered by it. Right now, it made him ecstatic to know she cared. 

Seconds later, Betsy returned with a sweater despite his response. "You're going to catch your death." Betsy's voice trailed off as she realised it should not have been said, but Warren seemed hardly to notice the comment. "Warren, is there something the matter?" 

Warren shook his head, his eyes dancing with unspoken happiness. "And I've not gone insane either, if that's what your thinking, my love." He grinned as she sputtered in denial. "Ah, I caught you there, didn't I?" 

"I thought nothing of the sort!" Betsy protested with a laugh, and Warren growled, grabbing her by the waist, spinning her around. She almost lost her balance and grabbed onto the metal veranda for support. "What _are_ you doing?" 

" _We_ are dancing," he corrected, humming as he pulled her to him by the hips, moving slowly to a song only he could hear, "and I have not gone mad." 

"You're doing little to convince me otherwise," Betsy muttered, placing her hands on his chest, and he took this as an opportunity to neck, burying his face deeply in her purple hair, sucking gently on her smooth flesh. These kisses were of love and purity, not of hate and deceit, like Candy's had been, like Candy, and this wasn't Candy, this was Betsy. She couldn't harm him, neither of them could. 

"Warren, not that I don't love this, but what is _wrong_ with you?" 

"I'm twenty-six years old," Warren murmured in her ear, stroking her long tresses with his fingers. It felt so nice, so fantastically nice, so incredibly unlike _Candy._ "I'm twenty-six when Apocalypse said I wouldn't make it to twenty-five. I beat him, Betts, I beat him by a year." 

Betsy's arms dropped to her side, and she pulled away, glaring at him in apparent disbelief. "This is what has you so overjoyed?" 

Warren's face lost some expression and filled with disappointment instead. It was obvious, yet Betsy seemed unable to understand what he was feeling, but he couldn't explain it any other way. "When I have so little to look forward to, this is enough for me. He said I wouldn't be able to do it, but I did, long enough to make it count." 

"But you'll die anyway." 

"Don't you see? That doesn't matter! My life has fallen down to what I can do with what I have left. Though I likely won't live to see next month, it doesn't mean I can't take solace in the fact I lived to see another day." Warren paused, thinking of the best way to say all that he wanted to say. "I know I have to die, but filled with the knowledge I was given this last year to prove I was my own person, I feel nothing but joy, even though the story itself hasn't changed." 

"I'll never understand you," Betsy muttered, shaking her head as she turned from him, and Warren moved behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me, Warren? How could you let me believe I could have a life with you if you knew it would all end?" 

Warren's hand dropped away, and he crossed his arms, placing his palms on either shoulder. In that brief instant and with that harsh question, he had returned to his former self, the glory of his victory gone from his mind. He had expected she'd asked, he had feared it, but he knew she needed an answer, an explanation for his selfishness. 

"It would have made it too real." 

"And it wasn't real before?" 

"Before, it was something he had told me, a twisted utterance from a madman I had no reason to believe. He told me I'd never be Warren Worthington again, but I am. He said I'd never regain my true wings, but I did. He said I couldn't live without him, but I was, Betts, I may not have been alive in the true and literal sense, but I _was_ living." 

"You should have told me without letting me believe a lie!" 

"A lie I believed! Don't you see? I _never_ thought he was telling the _truth._ It never even dawned on me until I began to notice I was changing, that I wasn't healing as I had in the past, and _he_ had started after me again." Warren's head dropped a moment in desperation before it rose again. "With the _wings,_ I thought I had truly beat him at his own game. My wings were real, so real, and though I didn't entirely know it, they were sustaining my life further than I could myself. I foolishly assumed that meant I was free. 

"I was wrong." 

"You should have told me!" Betsy repeated forcefully. "You should have told me everything at the beginning, so I could have decided for myself what I wanted, but now, it's too late, and the decision has been taken from me." 

"And had you known, would you never have fallen in love with me?" Warren asked quietly, and Betsy looked away from his mournful expression. "No! _No!_ You can't possibly expect me to believe it never would have turned out like this! I love you, and I _know_ we were meant to be together. _Nothing_ could have ever changed tha . . . ah . . ." 

Warren suddenly dropped to the ground as if in slow motion to Betsy's eyes, falling to his knees and whimpering quietly in pain as the stress took its toll and the drugs wore off. The ache was nauseating in its effect, and Warren gaged slightly as he felt the bile rising in his stomach, twisting and screaming to be freed. It was taunting, the hurt was, for it always made him believe it had disappeared only to reveal itself at the worst of times. 

Just when he thought he could bare no more, Betsy was there, holding him and murmuring soothing words, stroking his face with tender fingers. "No, no, I'd never let this escape. I don't care when it has to end, because without you, my life would have been worth nothing. I love you, and though loving you means I have more to lose, it also means I have a lot more to gain, Warren, a multitude more. Happy Birthday, luv, _Happy Birthday._ " 

* * * 

It started raining late into the evening of the tenth day at Braddock Manor. Betsy had wandered upstairs for a bath, leaving several hints for Warren to help her prepare it, but he ignored each and every one of them. He wasn't ready to go there yet, he wasn't ready to touch her like she wanted, to let her touch him. The memories of what Candy had done were still too fresh in his mind. 

Or is that really what he feared? 

Betsy suspected something was up, Warren was sure of it. Perhaps she even knew what had happened, though she hadn't uttered a word to make him think so. He could handle a kiss on his cheek, a kiss to her warm lips if he initiated it, and if he could forget just for a second, he could touch her with a hug or a holding of hands, but it couldn't go beyond that, not yet. 

But he wanted it to, oh God, how he wanted to love her. 

Every night for the past week and a half he had relived that violating experience. He could have handled the wings. That wasn't the first time it had happened, and he knew what to expect, but this, this he had never had to live through this before, not consciously and so painfully aware. In his dreams, she was always there, pretending he loved her, playing games with his body while he was so unable to escape it. He hadn't wanted her to do that, and it had been so demeaning. 

Just like the grotesque wounds the attack had left on his flesh, it had left him tainted. 

"Warren?" Brian asked from the table at which he sat, placing his book down. Warren jumped at the intrusion, and Brian rose from his chair, walking slowly toward him. Pausing at a desk, he grabbed a handful of tissue and handed them to Warren. 

Warren stared at the tissue, and brought a hand to his face, feeling the dampness on his cheeks. God, he was crying, he was crying when he hadn't even realised it, and he had betrayed his thoughts with the blasted tears. 

Brian pushed them forward, and Warren finally took them, immediately turning away from the massive man's questioning face. Warren himself wasn't short, and he wasn't slender or thin either, but Brian was taller than he by at least four inches and was far, far larger than he was. In reality, Brian was quite overbearing and _terrifying._

"How long is this going to go on?" Brian asked, eyeing the blueish man with a deep- rooted empathy. He, too, held secrets in him of hurt and violation. 

" _This_ is none of your business," Warren replied coldly, sparing him the dirtiest of looks as Brian invited himself to sit down on the couch Warren inhabited. Warren's eyes flared in anger, but Brian cut him off before he could utter a word. 

"No, she may not see it, but I do. Betsy told me of what she saw that night. She was in tears and it took awhile to get it all out, but I know." Warren opened his mouth, but Brian cut him off again. "Don't hold that against her. We're twins; I would have forced it out of her eventually." 

"Just where are you going with this?" Warren snapped, furiously trying to rid his face of the horrid tears. Damn them for being unable to stop! 

Brian neared him dramatically. "You aren't the only one who's ever been hurt like that." 

"What? Do other people get their wings hacked from the bodies on a regular basis? Now, that's surprising. I would have thought I was the only one to enjoy that privilege." 

"God dammit, I'm not talking about that!" 

Brian calmed down when he saw the other man shrink away from him, retreating back into the barren coldness of his mind. Meggan did it too whenever she didn't want to hear what he had to say, but he always made her listen, just like he would make Warren hear his words. "I'm talking about being hurt . . . _sexually._ " 

" _What?!_ " Warren stumbled off the couch, turning toward Brian like an animal being hunted, and his eyes were wide and afraid while his skin had paled from a dull blue to almost grey. "You don't know what you're talking about." 

"Don't I?" Brian asked drably, looking wear and tired as he spoke with great pains, letting his eyes fall to look elsewhere. Warren stared at him for a minute, and Brian's eyes eventually rose to meet the glare. "Don't act so surprised, Warren. It happened, and I moved on. I doubt it was as traumatic as your experience, but it scarred me nonetheless. I made the decision to keep it from Meggan, my fiancee, and haven't uttered a word of it since, but maybe I should have." 

Warren looked away, refusing to even acknowledge the man might be right. 

Brian sighed deeply, realising he'd have to open more of his wounds to help heal Warren's gaping one. "It's not as uncommon as we'd all like to think it is, but that's the problem, Warren, we never talk about being assaulted. The more gruesome acts are more rare, but how often has one of the women been _kissed? Touched? Fondled?_ Just because they're more likely to talk about it, don't mean it hasn't happened to a man and hurt him just as deeply." 

Warren sat on the edge of the table, curling his fingers around it as he always did when he was uncomfortable. With a light whisper, he asked, "how did you know?" 

"You have that _look_ when you're by yourself and _remembering,_ or around Betsy and trying to _forget._ When she touches you, you flinch, but you don't realise you do. When you touch her, it's gentle and careful and _uncomfortable._ You've been her lover for a _year_ but can't bring yourself to go to her room when you wake up _screaming._ She drops hints, you ignore them, and you _both_ know it. You _deny_ it, especially when it's the _truth,_ and you _admit_ it, only when cornered. You _cry,_ and you don't even _realise it._ " 

Warren blinked away the tears, for he understood and saw it, too. "Who was it?" Warren's voice cracked as he asked it, staring at his shoes as if he could somehow escape the look Brian gave him. 

"Sat-Yr-9." Brian ran his hand through his long hair, closing his eyes for a moment. "She wanted sex, and I had no choice but to give it to her, but being the strong man I was, I went back to life as thought nothing had ever happened. I could have handled it had I not known her counterpart from this world, Courtney Ross. I remembered how Courtney had been, how I cared so much for her, and to see this stranger that looked exactly like her do that to me, it was horrible." 

Brian rose from the chesterfield, meeting Warren face to face. 

"I know it makes you feel less than human; I know it hurts to feel somebody touch you; I know it's hard to forget, but you have to move beyond it. You don't have enough time to fool yourself anymore, and I _won't_ let you hurt my sister like that." 

"But if she knows, and if she sees . . ." Warren's voice trailed off. 

"If she knows, then everything will be better. She's stayed with you this long, and I don't think there's a force on this earth that can cast you two asunder. Your time is running out, Warren, _remember that._ " 

* * * 

Warren stood outside the door to Betsy's room, pondering whether to knock or go right in. To knock would be informal, and informality had left their relationship months ago. To go directly in would be to open himself up to her, to say he wanted to be with her for all time. 

Opening the door, he went into the dim domain. 

Her clothes were scattered on the floor, and Warren smiled as he picked them up, folding them over a wooden chair. In the background, he heard a soothing melody being sung by Betsy as she bathed, the faint sound of water as it splashed against her body. 

Warren walked to the doorway of the bathroom, being drawn by the resonance of the folk song. He loved Betsy's voice, for it was always able to soothe him. It was so beautiful, and he wished he could listen to it for eternity. Perhaps, he _would._

Betsy turned in the bath, the warm water rocking in the tub at the sudden movement. She stared at Warren and opened her mouth, but he shook his head, bringing a finger to his lips. No words were needed between them anymore 

Grasping the hem of his shirt, Warren pulled it over his head, wincing slightly at the small sting of pain. 

Standing now only in jeans, he undid the button fly and pushed them and his briefs to the ground slowly, kicking his feet gently to be rid of them. 

Breathing deeply and watching her dark purple eyes, he undid the knot that held the bandages around his chest. He let the cotton strips fall to the ground in a pile of white, sprinkling the ground like snow, and with the grace of a dancer, he turned away from her, showing her what he hadn't wanted her to see for a reason he no longer understood. 

He spoke out to the wall with a soft whisper: "Touch me." 

Betsy approached cautiously, forgetting about a towel or shirt to warm her wet and naked body, and she placed her hands on his back, below the stitched wounds. They were healing slowly, but the injury was still raw, still new. Laying her hands flat against his tightly muscle flesh, she kissed between his shoulder blades and kept her lips there, feeling the rigidness of his body slowly slip away into nothingness. 

God, how wanted to tell her how he had been tainted, how it went beyond the wings to demented love, but he couldn't find the words. The ideas were there, the truth was begging to be freed, but he couldn't speak them. At this failing, he began to cry softly like a child, and it grew, the whimpers grew into sobs. 

"I know, I know," Betsy hummed, bringing him to the ground. "You don't have to speak it, your mind has told me, it's told me everything, everything she did to you. I know, I know, don't be ashamed." 

"I feel so dirty because of it, and it's like I _betrayed_ you by having sex with her even though I begged her not do it, oh God, I _begged_ her, but even then, in every second before it, I couldn't believe it was really happening.

Warren whimpered, wrapping his arms around Betsy as she moved before him, stroking his head as it lay against her chest, allowing her breasts to be washed with his tears. 

"She took so much, she took everything I had left from me, and I want it back. I want everything back that she stole, but I search and I search and I can't find it. It's as if a piece of me has been lost forever. It's like I really am dead, and I don't want to be! I want to _live!_ " 

Betsy held him tighter to herself, drawing him in where it was safe from the harsh world. Her hands moved over him, wiping away his tears, calming his wracking body. With gentle gestures, she urged him to cry, to let it all out, to _release_ himself from the prison he was living in, the prison he had been living for a very long time. 

It had started in his youth, and it had grown to become him, to _become_ him but not _overtake_ him. The real Warren was still there, hidden in a place that was happy. Betsy had seen glimpses of it, so she knew it was there. _He_ just had to find it. 

"Let it go, Warren, let it go, so we can be together now, especially where we are. Release the hate and the sadness, release every lie you've ever held inside yourself. Seek the _Release,_ Warren, help me find it with you. I love you, oh God, I love you so much, but there isn't enough time left for you to heal properly. It _has_ to be rushed, and I'm sorry for it." 

And, though vaguely aware of it, he forgot the mask, and he forgot the prison, freeing himself, releasing himself into a place he hadn't seen before. 

He had thought it would be hard to do, but it _wasn't._

It took less than a simple thought and the unbreakable love of the woman he'd give his soul for, but he did it, and he got freedom in return. _Release._


	19. Chapter 19

The sun shone brightly on the morn of the fourteenth day at Braddock Manor. It was fantastically warm against his usually cold skin, and Warren smiled slightly at the welcome change, feeling especially invigorated that morning after the dreadful day yesterday, for yesterday he had woken to sickness. It had been the first morning he had felt too horrible to get out of bed, and it had been a harsh reminder of his impending mortality.

"Do you ever think about having children?" Warren asked absently, sensing Betsy awake to morning and able to feel her bright yet equally pensive thoughts rattle in his head.

"I've thought about it," Betsy replied slowly.

"Yeah, so have I." Warren's hold of Betsy tightened gently as he held her to him, and she put her hands on his arms, rubbing his skin with her fingers. "I never thought I'd want a child, I guess I didn't, but now, I don't know, maybe something's changed."

Betsy closed her eyes tightly, praying he'd stop with these wishes that could never be. He had to cease pretending he was alive when he wasn't. He couldn't let a dream delude him from the truth that his body was dead and with it, their future. "Please don't talk about this, not when it's never going to happen, Warren."

"Oh," Warren breathed, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Then how could I? We've never discussed it. Candy couldn't have children, either." Warren voice dropped off, bitter memories of her washing over him. When she had died the first time, he had wanted nothing more than to avenge her, but then she kept coming back again and again, and it hardened him to her memory, and now, after everything, he wished only to see her as she had been before Apocalypse had corrupted her.

Betsy turned in his arms, staring at him in mild confusion at his words. "Warren, I am perfectly fertile. It's you who can't have children."

"Where did you get _that_ absurd idea from? Sure, my body's pretty messed up, and I'm sure my sperm isn't much better, but Hank assured me I'd have little trouble _sowing my seed._ " Warren's eyes narrowed as Betsy's opened wide in the apparent horror of realisation. "What? What is it?"

"I stopped taking the pill," Betsy muttered, inwardly chastising herself for being so stupid to make assumptions. She stumbled out of bed, a hand to her forehead, and sat on the edge of the bed, crouched over as things continued to become too real for her.

Warren's face paled slightly, and he stared for a moment at her naked back turned to him in defeat. He hadn't thought she'd ever come to that assumption, not when they'd always been so careful before, and he knew the truth then, and now she knew that, too. "We haven't really . . . I mean, you and I . . . we only made love twice, right? There's a really good chance nothing will happen."

"And if is does, what am I supposed to do then? It only takes one time, and it's been two times, Warren, two. God, how could I be so dense to think it was okay?"

Warren crawled up behind her then sat, his feet dangling from the tall mattress, looking despondently to the ground. "Would it really be so bad to have my baby?"

Betsy turned to him quickly, clasping her hands on his and holding them tightly, alarmed he would think that was the reason for her sadness. "It would be the most _wonderful_ thing in the world, but we can't ignore the fact that I'd most likely be raising this child on my own."

"And it would cause problems, I understand," Warren concluded, unable to hide the disappointment from his face though he knew how wrong it would be to do that to a baby. He stood to grab his robe, and putting it over his pale, thin body, he turned to her. "But if I was going to be around, could it happen?"

"It _would,_ " Betsy responded, and Warren nodded, disappearing into the bathroom. Betsy exhaled loudly, placing her head in her hands, and she remained that way until she heard a muffled groan from the bathroom. Jumping to her feet, she ran in to see Warren collapsed on the floor, clutching at his chest, digging his nails into the flesh. "Warren?!"

"Oh God, it hurts," he muttered, biting his lower lip as he curled into a tight ball of pain, gasping with laboured breathes. Betsy dropped to her knees beside him, holding his hand to help him ride out the extreme waves of agony.

Suddenly, his body went limp, and Betsy caught his head before it hit the porcelain tub. Holding him in her arms, she brought him to the bed, putting him back to sleep, and she realised that perhaps this wasn't a good day after all.

* * *

Warren woke up three days later, having battled a horrible fever with the aid of Betsy and Brian as they struggled to nurse him back to health. Betsy was asleep on the other side of the bed, and Brian was unconscious in the huge lounge chair by the window. The positions they slumbered in were identical, and Warren couldn't help but smile faintly at the serene picture.

Warren stumbled over to the desk, nearly tripping as he went, and grabbed a pad of legal- sized paper and a pen. He walked unsteadily into the hall, and grasping the railing as a lifeline, he proceeded slowly down the stairs. He knew he should rest, but he had to do something first, something he had been meaning to do for weeks. Time had run out, and though it wouldn't go as he planned, it would still happen.

Warren sat down at a table and slowly began to write. So engrossed was he in the words, he failed to notice Brian appear and begin to watchfully hover over him. Only when he caught the sight of the huge Briton out of the corner of his eye, did Warren stop what he was doing.

"I'm impressed that you'd risk Betsy's temper to write whatever it is you felt compelled to write," Brian said simply, sitting in the chair opposite to Warren's position. "Mind if I inquire just what exactly it is?"

Warren looked to it then pushed the sheet of paper toward him, and Brian picked it up, beginning to read slowly through it. As every line progressed, his expression grew more and more perplexed until he finally gave the letter back to Warren, staring at him incredulously.

"Yes, I've left all of Worthington Enterprises to you and Betsy. I guess you won't need that merger after all." Warren stared at Brian, who continued to gape. "Please, say you'll take it. I can't bare to think it'll all go to waste. I know if I don't leave this to somebody who knows what they're doing, the Government's going to take it and some mutant hating bastard will get it all."

"This is a multimillion dollar enterprise. You can't just give it to us."

"Can't I? Because that's what I'm doing," Warren replied calmly, feeling a bit nauseous with every word he spoke but ignoring it and continuing to talk despite the discomfort. "I don't have the time to go about this the right way. Betsy's my beneficiary anyway. She'd get it all, but I _know_ she doesn't _want_ it. If I leave it to both of you, you can do with it what you please. I don't know anybody else who has the _skills_ or the _brains_ to keep it afloat. It helps support a lot of . . . _underground activities._ Do you understand what I'm saying?" Brian nodded, realising what Warren was trying to do was give him was the role of mutant saviour and philanthropist all in one. "Then you'll take it?"

"I'll take it." Brian took something from his pocket and dropped in on the table, letting it fall before Warren, who took it in his hands. "The mail carrier brought it. It's from America, one of your friends most likely. Tell Betsy when she wakes I went to town for groceries."

Warren nodded, barely paying any attention to what he was saying. Slipping a finger under the flap of the envelope, he ripped the paper inside free. A gold ring fell onto the table, and Warren put his hand over it before it was able to roll to the floor. Picking it up between two fingers, he stared at it for a moment before turning his attention to the note.

> _Warren,_
> 
> _I found this, in the loft, while I was cleaning up._   
> _I'm not stupid; I know what it is. Any moron in_   
> _his right mind would realise what it is. I'm only_   
> _sorry this had to happen. I thought you might_   
> _want it for whatever reasons. I meant to give_   
> _you it when you left, but I forgot. I'm so sorry._
> 
> _Bobby_

"Warren?" Betsy said, and Warren dropped the ring in surprise. It hit the floor, and Betsy stopped it with her foot, bending down to pick it up. Slowly rising to a stand, she looked to Warren, who immediately turned away from the despondent look. "Warren, _please._ "

"It doesn't matter now," he replied, using his hand to shield his face from her stare because it was too much to bare after everything else that had occurred.

"It matters to me."

"I waited too long, Betts. I was going to ask, and I kept meaning to, but I was such a coward, and now it's too late." Warren buried his head in his crossed arms on the wooden table as he continued talking. "I love you more than anything, but I could never find the right time, the right words, and then all this happened, and Candy was right. You wouldn't want to marry me anyway."

Betsy pulled his arms away from his head, smiling gently as she stroked his face with her thumb, and he kissed the palm of her hand. "If you had asked, I would have said yes. I would have said _yes,_ Warren." Betsy looked down for a moment before her head rose, and having made the decision, she stared deeply into his eyes. "I _will_ say yes."

Warren's eyes opened wider, and he found himself without words yet again. There was so much he had wanted to say to her, to proclaim everything he felt in his heart. Perhaps if he just started talking, something meaningful would come to his lips.

"I know we don't have much time together, but I can't think of anyway I'd rather spend it than wholly and completely with you. You are my world, Elisabeth Braddock, you are my _heart,_ you are my _soul,_ you are my _life._ Without you, I _cannot_ exist. Without you, I wouldn't _want_ to exist, and I would be _honoured_ if you'd consent to be my wife."

Betsy dabbed at her wet eyes with the hem of her shirt, attempting to wipe the grin off her face, but she couldn't because for one brief, insane second she forgot the reality and accepted the lie that this was more than a play of words and emotions. To her, this became real and within her grasp.

She threw her arms around him, frantically kissing his face and neck. "Yes, Warren, _yes._ "

Sitting in his lap, though still supporting the majority of her own weight, Warren slid the ring onto her slender finger, kissing it with warm lips, and they sat there as they were for hours, comforted by the sound of each other breathing, happy in the warmth of happiness, for it negated everything else that could harm them, even the harsh truth that a wedding, their marriage, could never be.

* * *

It was on the twenty-first day that something changed dramatically. It was the first, and the earliest, snowfall of the English Winter, and the moors had been coated with a pure, white blanket of cold. Since the early hours of the morning, the snow had been falling like gentle tears from Heaven to completely change the world as it stood unaware, and _unsuspecting._

In the early evening, Warren sat hunched over the toilet bowel, vomiting violently as Betsy rubbed his lower back, murmuring comforting words for his ringing ears. Brian had been on the phone with the doctor, who had advised what to feed Warren when Warren had been unable to hold anything down for two days, and a single suggestion had yet to work. The doctor was on his way over to feed Warren intravenously.

Warren gasped as he moved back against the wall, accepting the glass of water Betsy offered him. He knew it would most likely end up seeing the light of day again, but he had to get the horrid taste out of his mouth.

Betsy let the hot water run into the tub, preparing Warren a bath for his ailing muscles. The stress of the illness was taking a hard toll on his already weak frame, and Betsy could see how he was struggling to walk now, how he fought even to stand. His life was becoming a constant battle, a terrible battle that continued to go steadily downhill.

"Here, let me help," Betsy said quietly, undressing him with careful hands. She could see in his eyes how much he despised the situation he was in, but he never fought her help. The truth was plain to both of them.

He hadn't a choice anymore.

When she went to help him across the bathroom and into the water, he pulled away, muttering with a wounded voice, "I can do it myself."

Warren stood on shaky legs, using the wall for support. Taking a step, his knees nearly buckled, but Betsy made no move to help him. Until he asked, she would do nothing more for him.

Warren took another step, his eyes half-closed in concentration as he kept his hand to the wall. He stumbled again and swore in frustration as Betsy watched on with a disturbed expression. To see him fight with his failing body, it was almost too much for her to bare, but she'd never turn from him. She wouldn't abandon him that way.

"Betts," he whispered finally, and immediately she was there, supporting him when he couldn't find it within himself to do so. He hung to her, wiping away her tears as she helped him into the tub. "Thank you."

"Betsy?" Brian called, and she walked briskly to meet him in the hall. Behind him stood who she presumed to be the doctor though she had thought Brian was getting Dr Woodrow, who had been the family doctor for as long as she could remember. "I couldn't find him, Betsy, so Dr Essex volunteered to come in his place. I explained everything to him on the way up the stairs and then some in the hall, too."

Betsy eyed the unknown man suspiciously. He was of average height, of an average build, of average everything, but there was something about him that put her on edge, but she would have to make do with what had been given to her and ignore her intuition for now. After all, she had been known to be wrong, on _rare_ occasion.

"Ms Braddock," the doctor greeted her, holding out his hand in hello. She took it and shook briefly, almost pulling away in disgust at the touch of his cold skin. It was so much like touching Warren but without the humanity. "Where is the patient?"

"In the bathroom," Betsy responded, gesturing to the open door. Dr Essex nodded, and holding his medical bag close to his body, proceeded toward the opening, and Betsy followed, but he placed a hand on her arm, which she immediately shook off. "I would prefer if I could examine him alone. I promise you, Ms Braddock, he is in _very_ good hands."

Reluctantly, Betsy didn't move as the doctor disappeared into the bathroom, but her eyes followed every move of his body until he left her sight. There was something about that doctor, the calm yet malevolent look in his black eyes, the way he moved like liquid, the cold and smooth texture his skin held. There was something _wrong_ with him.

"Please trust him, Betsy, he came very highly recommended. His credentials are impressive and next to _unbreakable,_ and besides, we've been left with no other choice. Warren needed medical help and he was the only option open."

Betsy heard the words Brian spoke and paid little attention to them. She trusted her instincts, and her instincts told her that man wasn't all he appeared to be, but as Brian had said, there was no longer a choice, and she would have to live with Dr Essex's unwelcome intrusion if it meant Warren would be helped, and he would get what he needed because she had felt that and that alone in the doctor's mind. Whoever he was, he _would_ do what he came to do, and Betsy hoped that was all that would happen tonight.


	20. Chapter 20

Warren looked up from the water as he heard the door close. There stood a man, trying hard to appear to be a doctor, but Warren saw through the facade. Masks could no longer fool him, especially the masks he had been trained to shatter. 

"Worthington," the deep voice spoke quietly as he left the black bag on the counter and proceeded closer, but Warren lifted his hand, telling him without words to remain where he was, and the man complied with his wishes. "My illusion didn't fool you. What a dreadful pity." 

"Take whatever guise you may, _Sinister_ , but I'll see through it always," Warren replied, painfully aware of the vulnerable position he was in, but he made no move to change it as the form of the doctor morphed into the dark, metallic appearance of Mister Sinister. "Why are you here?" 

"I have a proposition for you." Sinister smiled sadistically, baring venomous teeth. 

"I don't want to hear it, so I'd rather you just left." 

"I won't double-cross you like Apocalypse did, Worthington." 

"Leave, Sinister, I do _not_ want to hear it." 

"You're dying!" Sinister snapped as Warren continued to stare at him coldly, reacting little to the blatant fact Sinister obviously felt the need to state. "Damn it, boy, hear me out! I can give you back your life, and I can free you from Apocalypse _forever_ just as easily." 

"So what? Then I get to live and serve you? No, thank you. I fell for that line of crap once, and it is _never_ going to happen again. Do you understand? Whatever you hoped to accomplish here isn't going to happen, so I want you to leave. _Now._ " 

"I only want from you what Apocalypse gave. In you is held every secret I've never been able to discover on my own, and I want it. In return, you can return to your life as if nothing had ever happened. I don't care about you, Worthington, but I won't let his legacy die with you." 

Warren's eyes flared in disbelieving rage. "Is that a threat?" 

Sinister grinned an evil smile. "No, not if you give me what I want. Think about it, Worthington, think about what you'll gain. You'll get to live the rest of your life with your precious Psylocke, and that's what you want, isn't it? You want to live out those marriage vows you were going to exchange." Sinister neared Warren, and with an icy breath, whispered, "and the child will need a father, will it not?" 

Warren turned slowly to look at the megalomaniac, his face paling dramatically. 

"You don't know, do you? She doesn't either, doesn't even suspect, but my _sources_ indicate the Worthington bloodline will not die with your valiant sacrifice." Sinister laughed a wicked laugh and stood back up, his cape flowing behind him. "So I ask you again to think about what I'm offering." 

Warren remained quiet, terrified under the watchful eyes of something Sinister. This is how it had started with Apocalypse, a simple question with promises of boundless gifts in return, but what made this narcissist anything different from his _creator?_ Was there any difference? 

"No." 

"What?" 

"No! I'm never going to allow my life to leave my control again. I may not want to die, but I'm not going to willingly give myself to you. I don't know what you were expecting from me, but it's not going to happen." 

Sinister sighed deeply, looking upon him pityingly. "Consider me humbled, Worthington, I didn't think you had it in you. I am dully impressed, but make no mistake, this won't end anything. It will all be in vain, and do tell your precious Betsy she'd be better off disposing of the child than giving birth to the miscreant." Sinister turned to leave. "Oh, and a final two things. Don't think this will stop me, Worthington, I never said I needed you to be alive for what I want." 

"And your other last word?" 

"I'm the doctor, aren't I? And you do have to eat. I'd hate for you to die of starvation before it's your time to go." Sinister grabbed Warren's arm and plunged the needle in his wrist, hitting the vein. Warren muffled his cry of pain, sinking slowly into the tub, but Sinister pulled him up before he was fully submerged, leaning his devilish face close to Warren. "Believe it or not, I envy you, Worthington, you found the loophole that would allow you to die. I was never that lucky, and perhaps, just perhaps, you won't be either." 

Sinister melted back into the form of the humble doctor and stopped at the door, looking at Warren, who had placed a hand over the tube that fed his veins, his eyes closed as his breath came in laboured breathes, and Sinister smiled, "fear not, Worthington, for nothing _ends_ when it comes to _monsters_ like us . . ." 

* * * 

Betsy waited half an hour after the doctor left until she went to check on Warren, and was surprised to find him still sitting in the now-cold water, legs crossed and his body hunched over with his head dipping down so she couldn't see his face, but their rapport was betraying his feelings even as she tried to filter them out for privacy's sake. 

"Sinister," Warren growled, shaking his head, "that was Sinister." 

Betsy grabbed the bag of intravenous fluid, fearing he would hurt himself with his careless gestures. "I'm sure the visit from the doctor couldn't have been that bad. I wish you'd give them a chance. They're not all out to get you." 

Warren's head rose slowly and he gaped at her before laughing in spite of himself. The laugh wasn't happy, and it was barely a laugh at all, but he began giggling insanely even as he found himself at a sombre crossroads. 

"What's so funny?" Betsy asked, confused at this sudden change. 

"That was _Mister_ Sinister, and believe me, he was far worse than a doctor," Warren mumbled, crossing his arms out in front of him, smiling at Betsy's innocent mistake. Betsy sat on the rim of the bath, running her fingers through the water. "It's not as cold as it feels. It's rather nice once you're used to it." 

"What did _Mister_ Sinister have to say?" Betsy asked calmly, though inwardly she could barely contain the dread that continued to build. As if Apocalypse wasn't enough, Sinister insisted on involving himself, too. 

Warren's head flopped to the side and he sighed thoughtfully. "The usual, ‘give me your life, and I'll save you but not without a price' bit. I turned him down, of course, because, well, I can't trust a man who calls himself Sinister." 

Betsy ignored his sarcastic tone. "Anything else?" 

His lips pursed in a perplexed manner, he nodded, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes as it sought to blind him. "You should abort the baby you're carrying." 

Betsy inhaled sharply, nearly falling from her perch and into the icy water. "What?" 

"He says you'd be better off killing it than letting Apocalypse get to it," Warren repeated quietly, closing his eyes but not before a single tear could escape. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. I know you didn't want it, so I guess now you have good reason to be rid of the damned thing." 

"I'm pregnant?" Betsy asked in shock, bringing a hand to her head as she tried to clear her mind of the unexpected development. It had been in the back of her mind, the realisation that she had made herself vulnerable to pregnancy, but being where she was, knowing that mistake had bred a life, she wasn't sure what to think anymore. 

"So he said." 

Betsy stood and walked over to the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. A halo of pink appeared around her face as she attempted to scan for the traces of life Sinister claimed she held within her, and at first she couldn't find anything, at first, but as she probed deeper her mind happened upon something that hadn't been there before. "Oh, God, it's true." 

Warren cringed at the abominable whisper, hating himself for doing this to her. Everything had become so horrible, and it seemed for every good thing that cleared their souls of the dark spots dwelling within them, a worse one happened to fill the void. 

Betsy turned to him, her purple hair flowing behind her as she moved gracefully toward him, kneeling next to the bathtub. "I'm not going to abort the baby, despite what Mister Sinister may say. I want it." 

Warren looked skeptical, for their recent conversation had been burned in his mind. It seemed like only a short while ago, yet it had really been many days since they spoke about children. Could she have changed her mind so drastically in that short time? 

"I want it, Warren, _I want it._ " 

"Are you sure?" Betsy motioned her certainty, and Warren's face grew more bleak with the knowledge. "Without me, it's going to be hard. Apocalypse is going to want it." Betsy nodded her assurance, sincere in her desire to have the child, and Warren smiled, stroking her face as his continued to grow more serious. "I could . . . I could accept Sinister's offer if that's what you wanted." 

"No!" Betsy said with heated emotion. "No, I don't want you to do that. You made your decision, and so long as I know it's what you want, I'll accept it. I'm not going to ask you to condemn yourself because of my selfish needs." 

"They aren't selfish," Warren corrected her gently. "It's nothing more than what I want, but try as I might, I can't deny it would be the wrong decision in the end. I want to live, for the first time in my life I want life so badly it hurts, but I know just as well I have no choice but to give it up. It's the only way I can release myself from the contract I made with my soul. It was the only release I could find, even after all my searching." 

* * * 

On the twenty-eighth day Brian finally tracked down Doctor Woodrow, and after examining Warren for a better part of an hour, he emerged into the hall looking grim. Betsy's hopes were dashed immediately, for if his face wasn't plain enough with the truth, his mind was. 

"You have one very sick young gentleman in there," Doctor Woodrow said, stating the obvious but feeling compelled to do it anyway. "I've left you with a supply of fluid, so his body gets some nutrients, and a supply of morphine for the pain, but there's little I can do now to help him. His fate has been sealed. 

"The best we can do now is make him as comfortable as possible, and please keep his spirits high and light. Depression would do the boy no good now, but from our talk, I can safely say he's not at high risk for melancholy. For a man about to die, he's facing it with more grace and courage than I thought a person could. From what I gathered, he's also incredibly lucky. He shouldn't have survived a week. You've got a fighter on your hands." 

"A survivor," Betsy supplied, smiling at the unhappy news. It was odd the things that made her content, but with so little time left, she had to find enlightenment in some form. 

"That he is. Make sure he gets plenty of fluids and keep him warm. They're predicting more snow to hit in a few days. I might not get to see him again if that is the case." Doctor Woodrow paused, looking from Brain to Betsy, letting his eyes rest on the woman. The story had been told to him of her incredible change, and though he still found it hard to grasp, he knew this was Elisabeth Braddock he was staring at. He had delivered her into the world, and her twin brother Brian before her, and their older brother Jamie before them. He knew the Braddock clan as well as they knew themselves, if not a bit better. "Elisabeth, I want you at my clinic to see me in a month or so to check on the baby." 

"If I'm still in England, I'll be there," she responded, catching the look on Brian's face. When she had first told him the news, he had nearly stumbled over with shock, but now it only initiated a mediocre effect. 

"And Brian, it's time for your checkup, boy, and I'm not going to be chasing you around to get you to come in. I'll sic Nadia on you if you don't make any appointment in one month's time." 

"I promise I will." 

Brian picked up the doctor's things, and they headed down the stairs, their bodies disappearing in the distance until they were gone. 

Betsy walked into Warren's room, shivering at the dimness held within. For her, darkness was unbearable, but the light bothered Warren's eyes and made him ill. The dullness was the compromise. 

Carefully, she lay down beside him, and he turned his head toward her. She could see the pain in his eyes. Doctor Woodrow had told him it was better he lie on his back, and with little fight, he did for the first time in fourteen years. It was anguish. 

"You're slipping away so quickly, I can't keep up," Betsy murmured, cradling his face in her hand. "I try to imagine what my life will be like without you, but I'm unable to see anything in the dream. It's nothingness. 

"For this past week, I've felt our child grow, but every time I think about it, I can't help but cry. I don't know how to raise a child. What if I make a mistake? What if it hates me for what I am? What if it hates you for leaving?" 

"You'll do fine," Warren muttered, patting her hand to assure her. "I know you, Betts, and I know you'll make one hell of a mother. Our child will be fine, with or without me, and I am happy just knowing that." 

Betsy smiled, stroking her flat belly with her free hand as she snuggled up to him, careful of his ailing body. 

"And, if it is a boy, don't name it Warren. I hate the idea of the name carrying on. A middle name is fine, but I don't ever want a Warren Kenneth Worthington IV to come into existence, okay?" 

Betsy smiled and reached over into the night table, withdrawing a book. "While we're on the subject of names, I have some ideas. Would you like to hear them?" 

"I'd nothing more than that." Betsy kissed him, and together they began reading through the names, stopping occasionally to laugh at the bizarre names or argue over the good ones, and for one brief moment in time, the Death was forgotten and replaced by love, and joy, and hope for what might someday come.


	21. Chapter 21

Betsy massaged Warren's back, careful still of the wounds, as she ground her fingers into him, singing softly under her breath. His eyelids hung low as the melody and gentle hands eased some of the tremendous pain he constantly felt. 

They had been at Braddock Manor for thirty-three days. 

Outside, the moors were being violated by a cruel, hateful darkness as it spread over the land. The snow began to writhe violently, and the wind whipped through the sky, howling at the intruder. The moors had fallen to the Apocalypse. 

Warren tilted his head as a strange sensation overtook his weak body, looking around even as Betsy urged him quietly to relax. The feeling terrified him, but he knew Betsy was there, and he was safe from whatever it was. He was not alone. 

How warm it was as her hands touched his tender flesh and her breath coated his skin, so utterly sweltering that it melted away the cold that was becoming him, and Betsy kept singing, caressing him as he was lulled into a dreamlike state. 

He watched the lovers through the window, seeing them as they were, both dying because of him, and he laughed at it, pleased his game had not been lost entirely. His son has broken the unbreakable deal and bent the unbendable rules when it was forbidden and how he would suffer for it. 

"He's here," Warren whispered, sitting up in the large bed and looking around, his eyes wide and trembling. Betsy kneeled beside him, covering him with his robe then gently forced him back down. "Oh God, he's here. I can feel him." 

"I can't sense anything," Betsy responded slowly, her mental butterfly flickering to life as she projected her mind outwards. "He's not here, Warren, I would have . . . argh!" Betsy cried, her head snapping back as she was hit with an incredible mental blast. She screamed again as her mind was hit for a second time. Her ears and nose bleeding, she lost total control of her mind and body and slowly slipped in the shadows, her body sinking until she was completely gone. 

Warren climbed off the bed, away from the pool of darkness that lurched once before blending back as it had been. He leaned against the door, placing his hand on the handle to support his meager weight. He hadn't walked for nearly two days, and he feared in his insane horror he had forgotten somehow. 

"Are you frightened, my son?" The cold, dead voice asked, the intensity of the question increased in the quiet room. Warren, focussing on simply getting his legs to allow him to stand, shook his head. "Do I terrify you?" 

"You give yourself too much credit, Apocalypse," Warren forced out, wishing his voice wouldn't quaver when he spoke. "My fear of you died a long time ago." 

"Did it?" Apocalypse inquired, suddenly moving toward him, and Warren, almost reflexively, flinched away. The madman laughed at his cowardly action, a cruel, sadistic laugh. "You know why I've come." 

"And you'll not have me." Warren realised he had backed himself into a corner with no chance for escape, and he knew Apocalypse saw what fault lay with his move. "You no longer have any control over me. I won't allow it." 

"You seem to think our positions have somehow been reversed, my dark Angel. You pledged me your soul, and I've tolerated your childish games up until now. I showed much patience in trying to get you back where you belong, but you've ignored every summons I've issued. I resorted to mental torture, and that did not work. I sent our poor, dear Candace to retrieve you, but like any good human, she failed in her task." 

"You destroyed her," Warren spit, pointing at him with an accusing finger. "Why her? What did she ever do to deserve what you did to her. I love her once, and she loved me, but you brought her back, and she destroyed me, and herself. You had no right to meddle with her to get to me. I'll kill you for that." 

"Kill me? Be reasonable, Worthington. You could not kill a soul now if you tried. Once, I had made you strong, but your mind was too weak to handle what I gave you." 

"I was human, and far stronger than you'll ever understand. I have compassion, and as much as you tried to make me otherwise, I am not a monster. You would like to have thought you drove me over the edge, but I never fell from grace. Had I, I would have stayed as one of your minions, but I'm free. You have no control over me anymore." 

"I control everything about you, my son. Without me, you would have died in that plane crash. Without me, you would be rotting six feet under with the maggots. I offered you salvation, and you willingly took it. You owe me everything you have." 

"You gave me all of what? Three seconds to decided my fate? Was it that long or shorter before I died at your feet?" Warren asked, noticing a faint look of surprise pass over Apocalypse's face. "Yes, I remember it. I remember every detail. I never even said yes, did I? I didn't _willingly_ take anything." 

"You did not protest when I brought you back from Hell." 

"Yes," Warren murmured softly, lowering his head, "but that was my mistake, and I regret that more than you will _ever_ comprehend, but by then the damage had been done, and it was too late. My mind had been completely destroyed by you." Warren looked at Apocalypse. "I was never supposed to remember, was I? You thought you had erased Warren Worthington for all time, didn't you, my lord?" Warren smiled suddenly, grinning almost sadistically. "But you hadn't, not completely." 

Apocalypse grabbed Warren by the throat, lifting him up. Warren put his hands on Apocalypse's, trying free himself from the stifling grasp, but Apocalypse rose his body higher, twisting his metallic fingers into Warren's pale skin. 

"I'll kill you if I must," Apocalypse said quietly, "and bring you back again, content to know you would suffer. I am not a spiteful man, my son, but my patience can only be tried so far." He tightened his grasp, and Warren closed his eyes in protest of himself, which only infuriated Apocalypse further. "You cry? _You cry?!_ I have made you strong, and you have the indignation to _cry?!_ " 

"I have the humanity," Warren whispered in the madman's clutches as he choked and gasped for life-giving breath almost in spite of himself, "and the soul." 

Apocalypse's grim expression grew darker. "Enough of this foolishness. Whether you want to or not, my prodigal son, you _will_ return me." 

" _No,_ " another voice said, colder even than Apocalypse's. "He _will_ not." 

Apocalypse turned around slowly, meeting face to face with a creature he knew not of. Warren would have gasped if the hold had allowed him, but he had to settle on staring at the black cloaked figure as she stood on a pedestal of shadow. 

The figure lunged at Apocalypse, making a stab at his heart, and distracted by the action, it grabbed the Angel from the demon's clutches, laying him gently on the bed, careful, after heeding a warning, not to touch his skin. 

"You attack the weak, but can you handle me?" She asked, forming a katana blade out of the shadows, then allowing the light of her mental powers to flow over the sword. Taking an offensive pose, she circled Apocalypse menacingly, her knife cutting through the air like wind. 

"Insolent child, have you no idea of who I am?" Apocalypse demanded, expressing his obvious distaste at being forced into the defensive role. "You caught me unaware, Psylocke, made me think you might be a threat. I was wrong." 

"I am a threat!" Psylocke screamed, twisting and arching through the air as she sliced the katana through Apocalypse's body, and the monster stumbled back, placing a hand over the odd wound. It was jagged and large, but though the blade had gone straight through his body, the cut was only an inch deep. 

"So you can bleed." 

Apocalypse grew a cutter on his left hand, as thin as sheet metal and just a sharp, and he swung at her, but she melted into the floor, appearing behind him again to plunge the katana into his back, narrowly missing the spine but leaving it raw and exposed. 

Before Apocalypse could retaliate, Psylocke disappeared into the floor once more then emerged on the bed, grabbing Warren and went back into the shadows. Seconds later, she stepped from the darkness, battle ready. 

Apocalypse's eyes flared in uninhibited rage, and he charge at her, slashing with his mutated arm, but Betsy jumped up and flipped over him, sliding into the shadows as he tried to grab her ankle then came out across from him, giving him no time to respond to her change in direction as she sliced his arm clean off. 

"How long does is take for techno-organic metal to heal? Or can it? Can you grow that arm back? Or has it been lost for all time?" Psylocke challenged darkly, as the blackness around her screeched and moaned as she drew more of its dark power in. 

"Cease with the chatter. I will destroy you for this blasphemy," Apocalypse threatened, ignoring the thick, maroon fluid that dripped from his wound in its severity. His hand morphed into a huge hammer-like creation, and he plunged it at her, but she stepped back into the dark, remerging behind him, and again she cut through him like a piece of meat. What she guessed to be blood and handful of organs poured out through the gaping wound, collecting on the floor in a puddle of corruption. 

"How does it feel? How does it feel to know I control your life?" Psylocke challenged, driving the katana into him again, and the massive devil fell to the ground, lying in a pool of his own waste, but still he fought to stand and fight, but she plunged the blade into him again and again, hitting very major organ she figured he had, ripping him apart. "Are you strong, Apocalypse, are you fit for survival?" 

"More than you, my forgotten child," Apocalypse forced out through a coughs, pulling himself along the ground, like he had when his glorious Angel of Death had confronted him and had been unable to kill him master, but Betsy plunged the shadow sword through his chest, pinning him to the ground. 

"No, that is where you are wrong, devil. I am fit, I am worthy, and I will survive when you are food for the maggots and worms. That is what I am, Apocalypse, and that is what you are not. I will make sure you suffer for all time for what you have done to Warren, do you hear me? _Suffer!_ " 

"No, sweets, not today anyway," another voice laughed, hitting Psylocke over the head with a chair leg. It had not been the item Rhythm had wanted to use, but she made do with what she had. Psylocke fell to the ground, and the shadow blade disappeared as her concentration faded. Heaving Apocalypse so the huge mutant lay over her tiny frame, Rhythm opened a teleportation hole and disappeared into it without another word. 

Betsy pushed to her hands, then to her knees and finally to her feet, stumbling over to the light switch. She had been a part of the dark too long, and she knew she wouldn't be able to purge her body if the evil without the help of light. This time as the light tore through her body she did not scream. She could not find the energy to voice her pain. 

Amidst the suffering, she felt arms envelop her, adding their strength to her struggle. She didn't even have to open her eyes to know it was Warren, braving the pain light caused to him also to be with her when she needed him. 

Brian surveyed the room quietly, and for the first time in his life, he was terrified by his sister. Betsy knew this, for his thoughts betrayed him, and she felt ill because of it, but she knew this is what she was now. The shadows had as much control over her as she did them, and in the end, the shadows were what saved Warren from the life he didn't want.


	22. Chapter 22

It had been thirty-seven days since they had arrived in England, so Warren could spend the last days of his life with Betsy in the place of her birth. It had been forty days since Warren's wings had been hacked from his body, forty days, and he knew the truth as he opened his eyes that peaceful morning. 

Warren Worthington III would not live to see another day. 

It didn't come as a shock, for it was, after all, inevitable, but it made him thoughtful. Betsy lay sleeping quietly beside him, oblivious to his realisation, and he was glad of it. Let her have these moments of dream before she woke to the cold, hard truth of where he was. 

It had stopped snowing. It was the heaviest snowfall in recent years, and as the countryside fretted and complained about the unwelcome weather, Warren took joy in it. Instead of the violent winds and blinding snow, the sun had decided to come out today. Betsy would be glad for the reprieve. 

Warren placed his hand on his lover's abdomen, knowing that a baby, his baby, was growing and maturing within the warm confines of her womb. He wondered if the child would look like its mother, and Warren hoped as much. A child would be blessed to be as beautiful as Betsy was. 

He thought about all the things he would miss. The birth. The first step. The first word. The first day of school. The graduation. The wedding. The birth of grandchildren. He would miss all of that and more, so much more, but he didn't want to think about that. It was enough that his life had been passed on in the release, that he would not be forgotten with time and fade away. 

His pale, blue eyes rested on the engagement ring Betsy wore. There was an unspoken understanding that there could never be a wedding, only the knowledge there would have been one had the circumstances been different. It was enough for both of them, and he knew he could ask for nothing more than that. 

Warren ran his hands through her long hair. He would miss this, the touching, the feel of her body beneath his body, the sleek sensation of flesh against flesh. Kissing the square of her back, he moulded closer to her, holding his lover tightly. 

It hurt so much to move now, hurt so much to even breath, but he knew it would not last forever, and he wanted to spend his last day on earth free of the numbness the medication brought. He didn't want anything to take away from the incredible sensations of life. 

Life, how he had taken it for granted in his younger years. He wasted so much of the precious commodity on women and alcohol and parties. If someone had told him at eighteen he wouldn't live to see his twenty-seventh birthday, he would have done something more with his time, something greater than had already been accomplished. 

He could take solace in the knowledge that his existence hadn't been a total waste. As an X-Man, he had saved countless lives, and eventually gave his in return. True, the Morlock Tunnels had been the beginning of the end, but that was where the true hero the Angel was born to be came into existence. When he had gone there to find Artie, when he had seen the child surrounded by the Marauders, he hadn't thought, he had only reacted. Knowing he could not win, he let those monsters tear him apart so Artie could escape. It had been the most heroic thing he had ever done, and no matter how much he wished the result could have been different, he would do it again if it meant saving a child's life. 

He held no regret. 

Warren thought of the happy times in his life, and though it seemed sometimes he had forgotten, there were some, few but enough. It was enough for him. 

He had found acceptance in the X-Men, and perhaps that's what saved him from falling into the dark pit of destruction rich, young brats often found themselves in. Just when he thought existence was worthless, they came into his life and changed it for all time. 

He had fallen in love during that innocent time, first with Jean and then with Candy. Even now, after everything that happened, he still loved Candy. Like him, she had been destroyed by a madman who never once asked if that was what she wanted, so he could not detest her for that, nor could he deplore her for hating him. In truth, he felt she had little choice otherwise. 

He remembered the joy of discovering his feathered wings had grown back. Like a miracle, they were simply there one day as if they had never died at all. That was the first step he took in releasing himself wholly and completely from the deal he made with the devil. His death would be the final act of freedom. 

And Betsy, Betsy had made him happy when he hadn't thought not a force in this world could ever make it possible for him to love again, but she had done it. By the time she had come into his life, his soul had been fractured beyond repair, or so he thought, but with time and tenderness, together they pieced each other's souls into entirety. He would love her always for that precious, selfless gift. 

And how he loved her . . . 

Betsy opened her eyes slowly, blinking slowly into existence. Immediately, she was aware of the rhythmic breathing behind her as Warren lay against her. Turning in his arms, she looked deep in his eyes and saw the truth though he tried to force it away by closing them to her horrified expression. 

"No," Betsy whispered quietly, forcing his eyes open with her fingers to show her what he felt, for she could no longer feel anything from his mind. He had severed the rapport. "No, it's too soon, Warren. You haven't given me enough _time._ " 

Days ago, it had begun to hurt to speak, so he tried not to, but today, today he would speak like he had never spoken before. For the first time in his life, he would be totally himself, completely honest and using the words he took from his heart. Today, she would hear the real Warren speak for the first time. 

"We have . . . had all the time in the world," he replied with softness, stroking her gorgeous face and touching her moist lips. "We have been . . . blessed, utterly and com . . . completely. It was . . . _enough._ " 

"But I don't want you to go. I can't bear to think of how I will carry on without you, not waking up to find you in my arms, not going to sleep knowing you'll be there beside me through the night. It's too soon, Warren, _too soon._ " 

"I will . . . never leave you, not com . . . completely, not with . . . our baby waiting to be born." Warren caressed her smooth belly, splaying his hand over the flesh, for he knew he could feel the infant. He felt its soul. "When you miss me, re . . . remember our . . . child. That will be enough. Let it be enough." 

Betsy placed her hand over his, soft tears flowing down her cheeks. She had never thought it'd be so hard to let him go, not when she knew it was coming, but being here in the flesh wasn't like the spirit. It was too painfully real to be denied. 

"This is so hard," she confessed, laying her head on his chest, on the warm, smooth flesh as it slowly rose and fell with every sweet breath, and how his heart beat with precious life, raging against his body as it withered away. God, she would miss that sound. 

"I know," Warren murmured, moving his fingers across her face, tracing the contours so he would remember everything about it for all eternity. He wanted to memorise her body completely, so he would never lose it. " _I know._ " 

"Betts, I want to . . . see the world . . . show me the world." 

So Betsy gathered him in her arms, and he was like a child as she held him, weightless because his heart was pure. Together they walked to the library where the huge window would allow them both a look into the snowy wonderland. It was so pure, so innocent, like their love. The sight that morning was more beautiful than it would ever be again. 

Settling on the ground before the magnificent view, Betsy held Warren to her, wrapping them both in warm blankets to protect them from the bitter cold. Her arms curled around his chest, clutching at him even as he continued to slip away, but even with the danger of mortality looming on horizon, that they were together was enough. 

It was enough for them both. 

"I never noticed how . . . peaceful the world is," Warren murmured, leaning against her as she kept her arms tightly around him. "How did we . . . miss the beauty? How can people be so . . . so evil when the world is so . . . so perfect?" 

Betsy could find no answer to give him and ease his thoughts. 

"I'm sorry," Warren whispered, offering his final apology, to the world, to Betsy, to the unborn child in her womb, to everybody he had somehow wronged whether he meant to or not, "I'm sorry." 

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Betsy assured him soothingly, combing his hair away from his face. His skin was so pale now, almost white though it still clung to the blue tint, but his eyes, his glorious eyes remained blue and clear. She would remember them for all time, for they were the most beautiful sight she knew she would ever behold. 

"I never thought it'd . . . it'd be so hard to let myself . . . die." 

Betsy began to cry softly, her tears dropping like gentle rain upon his shoulders, spilling down to the rest of his body, and Warren joined in her mourning, letting their sorrow and lament mix on his chest. 

They needed this release together. 

"I never thought it'd . . . it'd hurt so much to know I . . . had to let you go and leave you behind, but I know . . . someday . . . we'll be together again. I can be . . . happy knowing it will only be a . . . a blink in time be . . . before we are . . . one again. 

"Is this . . . is this the right decision?" Warren asked, gasping as the pain increased in intensity, but he loved it too, took obscure pleasure in the suffering. It meant he was real. It meant he was still alive. 

"I didn't kill Apocalypse, I only wounded him, and if you don't end this now, it's going to continue on forever." Betsy kissed his head forcefully, pathetically, for the end was too near. "And, God, I don't want you to die, but I understand why this has to be. I have to release you and let you stop what he started. You are a hero, Warren, and this is what heros do. The decision is _right._ " 

"I will miss . . . life," Warren said simply, slipping slightly in her arms. "I . . . hated it while . . . living, but I love it . . . in death." 

Betsy wept silently above him at the words, for all was silent now like the world was in anticipation of what would come next. "It isn't fair. You don't deserve to die." 

"Fair? No, it's not, but . . . but it's here, it's . . . it's real. I should have died in the . . . in the explosion, I did, and this . . . this ma . . . makes it real!" Warren cried out the last words, arching in Betsy's arms at the excruciatingly horrible pain. 

He could feel Betsy's body shake as she sobbed for his loss, but he could find no more tears of his own to shed for what had been stolen from him in his youth. He accepted it and hated it, but he could not combat it any longer. He had been fighting for years, and now all he sought was release. 

Release. 

"I love you, Betsy, I've always loved you, even when I didn't know I did," Warren murmured as the pain left his body free from it. "I'll love you always, forever, and I hope, I know nothing ends for it all leads to . . . " 

"I love you, Warren, I love you." 

And with a last, laboured breath, Warren Worthington passed away with a final whisper: 

_"Release . . ."_


	23. Chapter 23

The X-Men had yet to return from their mission, X-Factor had been incommunicable, and X-Force had completely disappeared from the face of the planet. So, at Warren's funeral, there was barely a soul there compared to the usual numbers. Only Excalibur and Generation X had been available to attend. 

Betsy stood in the snow, watching as they lowered the casket into the frozen ground. He was to be buried beside her parents, where Betsy would be buried when she died, and then they would be together for eternity. That had been Warren's decision, for he thought it would better hide his body from any evil force that might want it. Betsy suspected it wouldn't be that easy. 

"Betsy, I'm so sorry," Kitty murmured, hugging her gently as Pete Wisdom watched on, becoming increasingly aware he could lose Kitty any moment without warning. "If you need anything just call, okay? We can talk." 

Betsy looked down at her, nodding slowly, and Kitty and Pete disappeared back into the small crowd. They had no idea of the despair she felt. 

The teens hung closely together, Paige, Everett and Jubilee the most emotional of the bunch. Husk and Synch hadn't known Warren, but they were both highly sensitive persons, and death bothered them greatly. Jubilee was suffering the greatest loss and was being gently comforted by Ev and a silent Penance, who watched Jubilee's every movement carefully, occasionally reaching out to touch her shoe. 

"Oh, Betsy, are you okay? Brian says you're coping, but I know it must be dreadfully hard for you," Meggan exclaimed, bringing her hands to her mouth as her eyes watered again after finally stopping the tears. "I'm moving back into your home with Brian, so I'll be there for you. Oh, Betsy, everything's going to be okay." 

Betsy agreed numbly, wrapping her arms around her waist, hugging herself when it should have been Warren doing it. She walked slowly toward the hole in the ground, and picked up a bouquet of white roses. Plucking the petals from the stem, and ignoring the blood on her fingers as she was cut by the thorns, she threw the flowers on the coffin and a few disappeared in the wind, floating away like ghosts. 

"As Katzen said, mein _freundin_ , if you need any of us, we'll be there. You aren't alone in this, Elisabeth," Kurt assured her, and she heard his words but took little note of them. He couldn't understand what she felt. 

"Betsy," another voice said cautiously, and she turned to see Charlotte with her son Timmy looking solemn beside her. Brian had paid for them to travel to England for the funeral. Betsy had insisted he did. "Warren was a good man, and unlike all your friends who are trying really hard to understand, I know what it feels like to lose the man you loved with every ounce of your soul. It never gets any easier, but don't let it destroy you. He wouldn't want it to." 

"Thank you, Charlotte," Betsy murmured, feeling slight comfort for the first time since Warrens death. Charlotte nodded, leading Timmy away from the grave site with gentle hands. Betsy wondered if she would have to do that to her child someday. 

Betsy wandered on, passing Brian as he and Moira argued over something heatedly. Brian caught her eye amidst the fight and gave her a look of encouragement, which she returned weakly. They both knew it meant nothing. 

Bobby stopped his conversation with Remy and jogged over to her, stopping her from going any further. She sighed deeply and looked at him, and he, with eyes red and puffy, looked back at her. "Are you coming back to Westchester?" 

"In time, I'll come back, but right now, right now I'm just going to spend some time with Brian and Meggan, trying to get past this and on with my life. He's gone, and I have to learn to live without him. I'll return someday, Bobby." 

He nodded, and kissing her on the cheek as he went, he returned to his place with Remy. Betsy stared out across the moors, smiling at the beauty they held as she stroked her stomach, letting the child comfort her. Someday, she would return, _someday._

* * * 

Miles away in Egypt, the dark lord Apocalypse lay in sleep as his rejuvenation chamber cured his mangled body, and in his dreams of dementia, he planned his revenge against the woman who had nearly destroyed him and against the man who thought he could escape the contract etched on his soul. 

* * * 

Sinister sat in his laboratory, staring at a vial of dark, watery blood, thinking about the wonders that were held within the DNA and barely able to contain his thirst for the knowledge. There was a code there, a code that would finally allow him to beat and conquer Apocalypse, and he only needed to crack it. 

Sinister placed the vial away in a safe place, turning to his other creations and surveying them. Did they know what they were a part of? Did any of them realise this was only the beginning? Did any of them truly understand nothing simply ends? _Nothing ends . . ._


End file.
